Dirge
by Emila
Summary: The return from Amestris to Xing should have been triumphant. However when faced with guilt, a mounting forbidden attraction, a homicidal panda, and an endless stretch of desert – Ling almost misses the homunculi.
1. Day One

**Disclaimer**: All ownership of the amazing world of Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to Arakawa.

**Summary**: The return from Amestris to Xing should have been triumphant. However, when faced with mourning, guilt, forbidden attraction, a homicidal panda, and an endless stretch of desert – Ling almost misses the homunculi.

**Author's Note**: Is there anyone who can read Fullmetal Alchemist and _not_ fall in love with everyone from Xing? This is my first foray into Fullmetal fanfiction - inspired largely by the awesomeness that is Lan Fan.

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><p><span>Day One<span>

"I do not mean any disrespect," Mei Chang spoke suddenly, breaking the reverent silence as she and Ling arranged the wood and kindle. Lan Fan knelt off to the side, pitching the small two-person tent a safe distance away from the pile. "But perhaps," Mei continued, "given our location, it would be more wise to hold off the ceremony until dusk?"

She wiped at her glistening forehead with a sweaty palm and scowled, glaring at the vast amounts of sand – everywhere. "There's no need to make this desert any _hotter_, after all."

Torn between sympathy and offense, Ling answered her simply. "Yes yes, well - there's also no need to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. A fire during the day is much harder to spot than one at night." Lan Fan and Fu, of course, had found no trouble locating _his_ daytime smoke signals while in Amestris. But they were exceptions, always. The memory of his guards' prompt loyalty lanced through and twisted in Ling's gut. Fu...

He grimaced and cast one more dry branch onto the pile, wiping his hands – muddy from coagulated grime and sweat – onto his pants. "Besides, we've got to start traveling at dusk anyway. We'll hold the ceremony now and sleep until then. Lan Fan," he called, and she paused in securing down a tent-corner to face him. Ling frowned at what little of her eyes he could see through her blasted Yang mask – they were as black and flat as slate. "You will not be taking guard tonight."

Shocked, her spine stiffened. "Young master, I -"

"No Lan Fan," Ling insisted. The hot glare of the desert hurt his eyes, but he opened them wide to look at her sternly. "We may not be in Xing right now, but we will still honor its customs. The family duty is to vigil, and nothing more. You are not my bodyguard today. Not until dusk. Do you understand?"

Before Lan Fan could form a protest, Mei added softly, "It will be no problem. Between Lord Ling and myself, we can keep watch while you grieve. Xiao Mei will help as well." Xiao Mei chirped lazily from her perch atop the dozing camels.

Lan Fan did not seem comforted. "Sire," she insisted. "Certainly the circumstances being what they are calls for an exception. We cannot forsake your safety for the sake of tradition! I will be perfectly fine accepting my duties."

"Your only duty today is to Fu. I mean it, Lan Fan. Consider it an order." He looked over her shoulder meaningfully at the newly-erected tent. "Starting now. Go on and get ready. Mei and I will finish the preparations. We'll come and get you when it's time."

Ling knew that, beneath the mask, Lan Fan's face was beet red – the tips of her ears rosy against her coal-black hair – though from anger, embarrassment, frustration, or heat-stroke, he could not tell. Even when they had been children, Lan Fan had been a blusher; any and all extreme emotions showed themselves through her pale skin. Ling remembered the day she had earned her rank as guard – she had accepted and worn the Yang mask with something close to relief.

It certainly hid her feelings well enough now. Wordlessly, and without a wayward glance or telling flush, Lan Fan bowed stiffly first to him, then to Mei. Obediently she pivoted on her heel and knelt to gather her pack, disappearing behind the flap of the tent.

Xiao Mei yawned.

"You are very kind to her," Mei whispered as she and Ling moved to carry Fu's body from where it lay swaddled by the rest of their belongings. Ling tried not to look at his hands as they unwrapped the body, the sickly sweet scent of herbs and incense filling his nose and mouth. Beneath the heady aroma, Ling could almost detect the putrid stench of decay...

He looked at Mei to distract himself. Her face was solemn, far from its usual chipper attitude, as she rolled up the sullied brown cloth and placed it at the foot of the pyre.

"Is that so?" he asked, registering her earlier comment. Dirty, hot, and miserable, he felt far from kind.

She nodded without missing a beat, draping a white cloth over the body. "I am glad," she said, glancing up at Ling's face bashfully. "You are kind to your servants, your inferiors. You are stern, but considerate. It is a trait not found commonly in rulers. My clan -" she took a deep breath. "My clan will gladly serve you with honor, when you ascend the throne."

Ling reached down and lifted the body, shifting it from the ground to the pile of wood and tinder. Beneath his fingers, the flesh was both too soft and too stiff. He thought back to when he had hefted the gluttonous homunculus into the lieutenant's car without care, muscles straining and heart swollen with anger and grief for a fallen comrade.

As carefully as he could, Ling placed Fu gently on the broken branches.

"I accept you and your clan, Mei Chang," he said, "and I will rule you as Emperor." He looked at the form of Fu laying peacefully, wrapped in pure white. "But that does not, and never will, make you my inferior."

The sun had reached and passed its highest point before Mei left to summon Lan Fan. As he waited, Ling stripped off his yellow shirt and used it to scrub at his arms and face. Moderately presentable, he turned the cloth inside out and shrugged it back on. Sweat and muck had stained the white interior a faded grayish yellow, but it was better than nothing.

Some time later the two girls emerged from the tent, both Lan Fan's topknot and Mei's side-tails abandoned for single black braids. Lan Fan's hung down her back like a dark rope, pitch against her bright peasant's tunic.

She accepted the smoldering torch from Ling and, without hesitation or preamble, thrust it onto the pyre. The incense and scented oils caught immediately; the pile lit up into a musky-smelling blaze.

The three of them – four if you counted Xiao Mei – stood a careful distance away, respectfully mute. Time passed slowly, until Mei again broke the silence.

"Was he a good man?" she asked, her high-pitched voice carrying in the hot desert air.

Irrational anger flared briefly in Ling. What kind of question was that? How could Fu have been _anything _ other than the very best of men? But when he glanced to his right Mei stood respectfully, the fire-and-desert heat covering her grave face with sweat.

Ling followed her gaze to the blazing pyre, where his oldest and greatly-loved bodyguard and friend lay, burning: such a small ceremony, so much less than Fu deserved. He should have been buried in the palace cemetery, surrounded by the graves of the Honorable Fallen Warriors. Fu, at the very least, should have been laid to rest near the green fields where he had trained Ling and Lan Fan, or beneath the plum trees where he had loved to take his tea.

Was this – a slap-shod cremation attended by three Xingians _and a panda_, in the sweltering hostile desert – the best Ling could do for him?

He nodded his head gravely. "Yes."

Mei glanced up, raising one bossy eyebrow surreptitiously. "Then, perhaps you should say a few words?"

An odd noise came from beside him – a strangled sound caught between a scandalized scoff and a dry sob. Ling could hardly breath himself – his throat clenched, and he tilted his head to look where Lan Fan stood at his left, slightly closer to the fire than he and Mei.

She had followed his orders precisely – dressed in the traditional mourning garb of Xing. The Yang mask was gone, along with her black hood and gi. In their place she wore a long-sleeved white tunic, a simple sash, and a pair of loose white pants. Black wisps of hair had already escaped from where her braid fell over her shoulder, sticking to her sweaty nape, and her bangs hung messy and long. Her feet were bare.

She wore the clothes of a farmer's daughter, or any common girl in the market, if they were to attend a funeral. Yet even dressed as a peasant, without any trace of her uniform about her, Lan Fan stood every bit like a soldier. Her face had been scrubbed clean of sand and sweat, and she gazed steadily at the pyre before her with a ramrod-straight back. Her very essence spoke of restraint and discipline - what little of her aura Ling could detect felt contained and focused.

Ling swallowed the lump in his throat, breathed deeply through his nose, coughed (the smell, gods the _smell_: roasting flesh, burning incense, smoke and charcoal) and spoke:

"Fu was – was my most trusted ally, and dearest friend." Ling had never hated his voice before, but now his words fell flat and lame in the desert air as he futilely struggled to express Fu's worth. He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined a stern wrinkled face, strong hands, and the smell of steeped Oolong. "He taught me how to fight, and not only for my safety, but – but to protect others.

"Fu gave his life for mine, even though I'm...I'm not," Ling opened his eyes and searched the flames, just barely able to make out the raised black lump in the center. He breathed again. "Fu, I will spend the rest of my life following what you taught me. I will protect everyone. I will care for everyone. Just like you cared for me, and protected me. I promise."

Ling couldn't stop his gaze from sliding to the left, and he spoke his last words with an eye on Lan Fan's naked and stern young face. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Fu."

The wood spit, the flames crackled, and the Xingians kept vigil until their cloaks were cold with sweat and the embers ceased glowing. Mei quietly helped Lan Fan gather the ashes into a simple piece of Amestrian pottery that they had brought.

"We will have to move at dusk, in about four hours," Ling said, his voice sounding, still, foreign and wrong in the stifling air. "We'll travel until it's too dark, rest, and move again before dawn until it's too hot to go on."

Lan Fan nodded and cupped the pot firmly in her hands – it _tink_'ed against her automail – and silently slipped into the tent.

Ling claimed the first watch, and Mei crawled over to where the camels took shelter under a small outcropping of rocks for rest. Before long, the smell of burning jasmine began to waft out from the tent. The murmur of Lan Fan's prayers, as she kept her vigil, was just barely audible above his own breathing. Cautiously, Ling extended his senses behind him, unsurprised when he felt Lan Fan's aura no longer restrained and quieted. It ebbed and flowed in motley surges of grief, swelling and spiraling and wincing when Ling's own inquiring presence was detected. Lan Fan's chanting increased in volume.

Ling squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and glared out across the sand.

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><p>Four hours later, Lan Fan emerged with her hair up and under her black hood. Mei and Ling would not mention having heard anything other than prayers – certainly not heart-wrenching sobs – during their watches, and the stoic Yang mask hid all evidence suggesting otherwise.<p> 


	2. Day Four

**Disclaimer**: Fullmetal Alchemist and all its amazing characters and happenings still belongs wholly to Hiromu Arakawa. I do own the camels though - the feisty one's name is Perry, if it amuses anyone to know.

**Author's Note**: And here I thought that Lan Fan/Ling lovers were few and far between! I was touched to see so much traffic to this story, and a sincere thank you goes out to those who added "Dirge" to their Story Alerts. (An even more sincere, and deeply happy, thanks goes to those who took the time to review. I love y'all!)

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><p>Day Four<p>

Camels were, unarguably, the very worst animals in the entire world. Ling was sure of it. For all their reputation as the desert-crossing-transportation-animal-of-choice, they remained absolutely _terrible_ creatures.

They _spat_, and moaned, and smelled like rancid mold. Every time the animal took a step forward, a blast of sand was kicked backwards and onto Ling's ankles - the exposed skin between his pants and shoes felt raw and blistered. And his poor stomach! He still had not gotten used to the constant back-and-forth motion of the camel's loping gait, lurching him sharply enough to sour his gut and rattle his nerves.

Ahead of him, Lan Fan's camel calmly lifted its tail and relieved itself on the sand, and Ling's walked through the waste without a care. It flicked its head slightly though, as if to say, "So what? _I'm _not going to have to scrape it out of my hooves later."

Ling pondered the practicality of adding camel to the list of Xingese foreign delicacies.

He quickly vetoed the idea – he would rather eat Edward's other boiled shoe than something so foul.

Probably.

Sighing, the Very Honorable Future Emperor of Xing rubbed his empty stomach, cast a glance around at the dark and barren desert, and slumped forward in a very dishonorable fashion. Mei would have reprimanded him severely, had she been awake.

The young princess, having taken the final watch before the group had set out again, was allowed a few extra hours of slumber – her camel tied caravan-style to Ling's as she slept. They had devised this system the second night into their traveling, discovering that they all appreciated the rest after a long watch.

Well, Ling and Mei appreciated it – Lan Fan bluntly refused to sleep while they were moving.

Ling frowned, dried sand crackling and pulling at his skin from the motion. Lan Fan was starting to worry him.

When Fu had been there to help, the journey from Xing to Amestris had taken just over two weeks. While it had been equally grueling, and sand-filled, the expedition had progressed much more efficiently under the precise routine of Fu and Lan Fan's cooperation.

Like clockwork, his two bodyguards had danced around Ling – organizing rests and meals and routes – with a proficiency that falsely suggested ease. Now Fu was gone. Alone, Lan Fan had to move twice as fast to keep the system running, even more so with the addition of Mei Chang and Xiao Mei. She carried all of Fu's burdens. (The ash-laden urn chinked lightly in Lan Fan's saddle bag, and Ling tried to ignore how literally she carried the weight of her grandfather.)

Where Fu would have stood guard while Lan Fan hunted, she now faced the paradoxical situation of serving as both forager and protector. Ling remembered how she had hesitated the first morning they settled down to set up camp. He had watched – amused at first, before growing increasingly concerned – as Lan Fan looked back and forth between him, Mei, and their dwindling supplies. But before either he or Mei could offer to hunt, Lan Fan had crouched down low and sprinted away in a flash.

She had returned a short time later with two small sand moles, dropping them by the fire pit unceremoniously. She had then stared at Ling for a moment to assess his health, before taking a deep breath, only to dash off again. This pattern had repeated itself for the past few days, Lan Fan struggling with the impossibility of staying with Ling at all times while providing the group with food.

Every morning, no matter how tired she may have been from a night spent in an uncomfortable saddle atop Ling's new most-hated animal, Lan Fan hunted. She took multiple short runs, never gone for more than ten minutes before returning panicked and desperate to Ling's side – with considerably less food than was possible without interruption.

Ling would have gladly just _gone with her_ to solve the problem, but he was afraid of Lan Fan's reaction to the idea. His friend seemed consumed with thoughts of propriety and duty, insisting on tending to Ling and Mei with a voracity that alarmed him.

She alone scouted ahead before dusk each night. She alone hunted, cooked, and served their modest meals. Mei had had to resort to physical persuasion just to convince Lan Fan to share in the duties of setting up camp.

She wasn't sleeping well, nor eating much, and she had rarely spoken in the days since Fu's cremation. As they trudged through the rough sand, Ling felt her presence like a sorrowful and wounded shadow.

The silence was wide and yawning; he found himself filling the void with the words he imagined Lan Fan would say to him, if honor didn't stay her tongue:

_"I have sworn to protect you"_

Trudge.

_ "follow you" _

Trudge.

"_faithfully." _

Trudge.

"_Because of you" _

"_my grandfather died." _

Trudge.

"_I saw it." _

Trudge. Scuff.

"_Protecting you," _

Trudge.

"_and your selfish and foolish wish," _

"_it killed my grandfather." _

Trudge.

"_Because of you" _

"_the one person I have ever loved is gone." _

"_My honor is reduced to rags, sopping up the mess you have made with your folly" _

Trudge.

"_How can I ever forgive you" _

Trudge.

"_I _hate_ you"_

"Lan Fan!" Ling cried desperately when his imagination grew too cruel. Or, too accurate? His gut twisted at the thought. Ahead of him, he saw her stiffen, startled.

"Sire?"

Snapping the reins, he urged his camel forward – it bent its head backwards to regard him, and promptly spat. _Damn beast_. With a sharp kick, he forced it into a trot and came level with Lan Fan. "You were so quiet! I had to make sure you hadn't fallen asleep on me!" His teasing grin was strained as he looked at her. "Bored, are you?"

The Yang mask looked away quickly. "No, my Lord. I assure you that I have not grown lax in my duties. To neglect your protection in such a way would be to shame myself."

His camel groaned, actually _groaned_, and Ling was forced to agree that perhaps indirectly insulting her vigilance was not the right way to go about initiating conversation. Still, the response was so typically Lan Fan, and her missed voice such a treat, that Ling felt his smile widen naturally.

"You were daydreaming then, I see."

"No, Sire. Impossible, since it is night." Her response was clipped and bitter, Lan Fan spitting the last word like poison. The sky was overcast, diminishing the visibility of the desert to coal-hues and pitch-silhouettes. Still, Ling was a warrior of Xing, and he could see Lan Fan's aura as easily as her face – were she not wearing the damned Yang mask.

Her chi swirled in a tempest, curling in on itself, folding and twisting with anger and loathing. Ling's smile melted off his face.

"Lan Fan?" Her mask remained facing away. "Lan Fan, I can tell that something is bothering you. Has been bothering you." Silence. "You are angry. Tell me why."

"You must not concern yourself with –"

"Well I _am_ concerned," Ling interrupted. "Will you lie to me then, Lan Fan?"

"No Sire!"

Ling took a deep breath of the cold desert air. "Then you must tell me – what is troubling you? Is it Fu?"

"N-no. Yes. No, of course I am grieved, but," she stuttered, as always whenever Ling forced away the barriers of servitude and formality she so loved to hide behind.

"But?" he prompted, bracing himself. (_"I _hate _you."_) He swallowed; whispered, "tell me."

"It is, it is only," her head dropped, shoulders hunching forward as she curled in on herself. When she spoke, her voice was high and light: "I am ashamed – and so sorry, my Lord!"

Ling started. "What?"

"I am not, I cannot," Lan Fan was babbling now, as if she could not stop the flow of speech once un-dammed. "The return journey is taking so much longer, and it is because of me. I know that we travel at night to spare my arm from the sun, but it cuts several miles off of our progress. The longer we take getting you and the Philosopher's Stone back to Xing, the more danger you are in, and it is because of me.

"You and the Lady Chang are constantly tired and hungry, and miserable, because I cannot provide for my sovereign and one small girl. I am incompetent, and…and truly useless to you. If my grandfather were still alive, surely he would be able to fulfill his duties. I am nothing now - not even, not even a whole human anymore." Ling heard a faint _whir _as she clenched the fingers of her mechanical arm. "And this limb that is meant to protect instead jeopardizes our entire mission. I am a disgrace. What kind of servant hinders her master?"

She was quiet for several moments, before awkwardly adding, "my Lord."

Ling sat back in his saddle, stunned. Mind racing to find the right thing to say, he instinctively fell back on his usual way of dealing with Lan Fan – teasing. "Well, you've certainly left me speechless," he joked. "What a switch, eh? Me with nothing to say, and you giving long speeches!"

Lan Fan said nothing, and his camel moaned. Mockingly. Ling glared at what little he could see of the ugly bobbing head, but conceded the point. _Tact. Be tactful._ He told himself sternly. _If she's seriously upset, then be serious with her in return. _He tried again.

"But you know, Lan Fan," he said, looking at her dark and hunched figure. "I don't think that way at all. You're far from useless. In fact, to me, you're an amazing and wonderful person." To his horror, Ling felt the back of his neck warm slightly. Baffled, he rubbed at his nape and made a note to cover his neck better during the day. Obviously too much sun-exposure had given him a sunburn. Either that or he was blushing, which was impossible. _Lan Fan _was the one who blushed when he complimented her – which made it, of course, extremely fun - not the other way around!

"You must not," she stuttered, and Ling swore he could feel the heat of her blush warming the cold night air. He grinned. There. She was flustered. Good. "Y-young Lord, you should not – please, my Lord, your kindness is not necessary."

"'Not necessary'?"

"It is your concern for my grief which makes you so cautious, so forgiving. My Lord…I will not lie and say that the memory of my grandfather comes without pain. However it has been quite some time since his honorable death. I have mourned and am doing as well as can be expected. His cremation was a reminder of loss, but not a fresh wound.

"So please do not walk so gently with me, my Lord. Besides being unworthy of such regard, I have already begun to rally."

So this was how she had been feeling these past few days? Now that he thought about it, Ling berated himself for not having seen this coming. It was so _typically Lan Fan_: desperately taking on all the duties to disprove any weakness, sternly disciplining herself for her perceived "failures", all the while dealing with shame and grief and a serious physical handicap.

Not for the first time, Ling felt his heart go out to his painfully-dedicated bodyguard. She was always so eager to prove herself and even more willing to blame herself, almost as if she ran on duty and guilt.

Well, if guilt was what Lan Fan responded to, then Ling had no qualms against using that to his advantage. "I'm disappointed with you, in that case, Lan Fan." She jerked upright in her saddle, and her camel grunted with surprise. Ling looked towards her silhouette, barely visible in the dim starlight, and summoned his not-entirely-faked anger. "Do you have so little faith in me?"

"S-sire! What –"

"A ruler is nothing without his people, remember? And you are one of my people. Your duty may be to see to my protection, but _my_ duty is to care for you in return. How do you expect me to rule our entire nation, if I cannot provide for the well-being of one vassal?"

Lan Fan sputtered incoherently.

"I appreciate your dedication, Lan Fan. It is truly commendable. But you are working yourself to the bone, and it isn't necessary. I may not be as capable a fighter as yourself, but I'm certainly not an invalid. Neither is Mei. We can help you, work together, to make this journey together.

"As for you slowing us down – do you remember the last time we crossed the desert? The heat was unbearable. I never plan on traveling in the desert during high noon ever again. If it's safer, then who cares if it's a little slower? I don't need to worry about the Philosopher's Stone when I have you to protect me.

"We worked together crossing the desert to Amestris, and we can certainly do so now. You don't have to prove yourself, Lan Fan. To me, you are already indispensable."

Ling's camel bellowed out a long yawn, snapping him back to himself. He suddenly noticed the lack of distance between the two of them as he'd drawn closer, barely an arm's reach, and registered just how disturbingly soft and deep his voice had subconsciously grown. He reared back, eyes wide.

"S-so stop being so stingy, and share the workload!" He plastered a smile across his face, heart pounding. "I'm supposed to be the greedy one, remember? Don't steal my act!"

Lan Fan said nothing, but Ling could feel a definite shift in her aura: less constrained and more relaxed, peaceful. A high-pitched panda squeaked behind them, and Ling sensed Mei's presence stir as she awoke.

"Servant," she called blearily. "What time is it?"

To his immense surprise and delight, Lan Fan snapped in anger. "'Servant'? I am not your servant! I am beholden to the Yao family, and answer only to Master Ling!"

Mei, despite her drowsiness, riled quickly. "And _I_ am a princess of the Chang family, far above you in rank. I can call you however I please!" Ling didn't have to look to know that her small little nose was pointing high in the air. "And anyway," she snipped. "I wasn't actually talking to you."

Ling leaned back, grinning happily as Lan Fan turned with outrage to hiss at the young girl. "Am I to take it then, that you mean to say, you were addressing _Master Ling _as your - !"

"No, of course not! It's only that I used to call Mr. Scar 'servant', and I traveled with him for a very long time! It was a force of habit!" Mei seemed taken aback at this, Lan Fan's first show of emotion in three days.

"So long as you know your place," Lan Fan sniffed surreptitiously.

"My _place_?" Mei's voice reached an impossibly high pitch, topped only by the indignant squeal of her panda as it bellowed its offense.

Ling leaned forward to pet his camel's flank cheerily. "My my! I am indeed a lucky man! To be attended by such high-spirited ladies!"

The camel spat.

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><p>Sometime past midnight, when the temperature had dropped to an uncomfortable chill and the camels began to stumble wearily, Ling, Lan Fan, and Mei huddled around a tiny fire. In a generous gesture of goodwill, Mei magnanimously asked Lan Fan to please brush out her voluminous hair; Xiao Mei bit the tail of Ling's camel when it spat too near the panda's resting place; Ling amused them all with an epic retelling of "The Man who Fed the Emperor a Boot"; and Lan Fan, as she untangled Mei's braids, took off her Yang mask.<p>

She did not smile, did not even look at Ling, but her ears were slightly pink when she accepted a sliver of dried mole-meat from Mei. Ling grinned, and leaned back on his elbows to stare at the murky black sky.

It was a start.


	3. Day Six

**Disclaimer: **No Copyright Infringement occurred in the making of this fic. And only one camel was seriously harmed, but he's feeling much better now.

**Author's Note**: I had a lot of fun researching for this chapter. I can rest easy now, knowing that I am moderately well-informed, in the rare event a sand storm ever takes south Texas by surprise.

**Author's P.S.**: To all the wonderful people who took the time to review this story - thank you! Your input makes writing rewarding on a whole different level.

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><p>Day Six<p>

Mei Chang had a very specific set of expectations for her world. Heroes were meant to be chivalrous, blond, handsome, and _tall_; love was romantic, and perfect, and eternal; and princes needed to behave appropriately for their station. As a girl of such well-defined principles, Mei did not always approve with many of the things which her future emperor said or did. His sense of style, for one thing, was hideous, and his mannerisms appalling. He joked much too often, and enjoyed heckling his friends more than most people. In Mei's opinion, Lan Fan deserved commendations merely for putting up with the man.

"Lan Fan," the future prince of Xing exclaimed happily. "You're a lifesaver! Well done. You've found us a feast!"

"It was nothing, sire," Lan Fan said modestly as she laid down the spoils of her hunt, removing her Yang mask with a sigh.

"Nonsense!" Ling insisted. "This is amazing!"

Also, he spent far too much of his time concerned with food.

In this case, however, Mei had to agree with his extreme enthusiasm. Lan Fan had outdone herself this morning, returning to camp with two snakes, a desert-mole, and _four_ fat wild hares. This alone would have been enough to impress, and feed, their small troupe for a few days, but the true coup-de-grace lay draped over Lan Fan's shoulders: a small pronghorn, hide thick with tender meat.

And all of this, before the sun had risen! Lord Ling was correct; Lan Fan had done extremely well. Predictably, the girl reddened at her Lord's praise.

"Truly, sire, it was nothing." Lan Fan was frowning now at the array of animals in the sand, sliding the pronghorn to the ground with a grunt. "They were all of them still in their dens, and seemed rather disinclined to move. Even when I dug out their burrows, the rabbits did not run. And these," she held up the snakes by their throats. "These were already dead when I happened upon them." Lan Fan looked disturbed. "I can in all honesty say that I did nothing but collect."

A tiny quivering ball shivered underneath Mei's tunic. Xiao Mei had been upset all morning, also refusing to leave the shelter of Mei's shirt. The panda had not been this anxious since the fight with the homunculi.

"Ah, finally," Ling laughed. "Our good deeds in Amestris are being rewarded! And with food, too – the gods must have a special place in their hearts for me."

"An emperor must not speak so lightly of the gods, Ling Yao," Mei admonished severely.

"An emperor rules by the will of the gods," Lan Fan said, just as severely. "There are those in the higher circles who even believe that the emperor _is_ a god."

Mei sniffed. "The god of empty bellies and unfunny jokes, perhaps."

"It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it!" Ling replied lightly.

Flipping her braids over her shoulder, Mei knelt to gather the rabbits and draw out her knives. Lan Fan made a small sound of protest, looking scandalized, and moved forward as if to snatch back her kill, but she halted.

Honestly, Mei thought as she watched Lan Fan falter, it was no wonder the girl cleaved to her mask so desperately. Her emotions showed across her face like a stain on silk!

Lan Fan frowned, then dithered, before frowning again. With an almost imperceptible huff, she gave Mei a reluctant bow. "I humbly accept your generous offer of assistance, young Mei Chang," she mumbled stiffly. "While you work, I shall prepare the fire."

Mei looked over to see Ling grinning foolishly, practically radiating approval. He had obviously spoken with Lan Fan at some point about her self-destructive hoarding of the work load – an act which Mei could finally approve. In her mind, a king must be able to control his people, even those who seek to show an unhealthy level of devotion.

"But it is not your watch, Lan Fan," Mei said, enjoying the way the young guard's eyebrow twitched at the reminder. "I can preserve the food during my watch. You and Lord Ling rest."

"Good plan, a very good plan," Ling said cheerily, yawning into his fist. "I'm about to collapse from exhaustion."

Mei pursed her lips with annoyance – a king must never show such laziness! – and Lan Fan's face burned. "If it pleases you, my Lord, I shall assist Mei Chang with the meat before retiring – please avail the space however you see fit."

With a stab of sympathy, Mei allowed Lan Fan to help in skinning the rabbits. It had not escaped her notice that whenever the young prince and his guard shared the tent, Lan Fan stoutly refused to enter until her Lord had first fallen asleep. She always claimed restlessness as an excuse, but Mei suspected that the intimacy of falling asleep, shoulder-to-shoulder, with her liege was too much informality for Lan Fan's keen sense of propriety to allow.

Mei could relate – for all his sunny stupidity, the young prince was still a _boy_ – falling asleep in the same enclosed space was awkward.

It never seemed to bother Ling however. Even now, he merely shrugged and crawled into the tent eagerly. His snores came gurgling out shortly afterwards.

One of the camels snorted derisively. Mei agreed.

Together she and Lan Fan worked, skinning and eviscerating in silence as the sun rose. Morning light caught and heated the sand, painting the far horizon a glittering red. Lan Fan quickly boned three of the four rabbits and tossed their remains – grizzle and all – into the small cooking pot; they would have stew for breakfast.

Lan Fan sighed, and rubbed at her sweaty face. Two black smudges darkened the area under her eyes, and she stood to wipe down her blades and the metal frame of her automail before bowing once more. "Again, I thank you for your generosity," she said, and then turned to wearily enter the shelter.

The left side of the tent bulged, Lan Fan curling as far away from Ling as the small space would allow, before her own exhausted breaths joined Ling's grating snores.

Mei worked methodically, quickly and efficiently preserving the meat from Lan Fan's hunt. When she came to them, she held up the two dead snakes curiously.

"What happened to you two?" she wondered aloud, poking at their backs with a chubby finger. The skin was blistered, scales bubbly and burnt as if boiled by the sun. She could certainly believe it – the days had been growing progressively hotter and dryer – and she sent a quick prayer of sympathy and thanks to the snakes' spirits. Peeling the white flesh from their bones, Mei laid their meat out to dry in the sun.

Heat settled over the camp like a scratchy wool blanket, shrouding Mei in a suffocatingly itchy haze of sunlight and sand. The camels grunted periodically, Xiao Mei slept, and Mei cleaned and polished the blades of her knives for almost an hour before disaster found them.

Mei liked to think that she felt the danger coming because she was an alkahestrist, and therefore more in tune with the flow of energy within the earth than her comrades. Or maybe it had been the long months she had spent in the wild with Xiao Mei – perhaps they had afforded her with an acute sense for changes in nature.

More likely, however, it was Xiao Mei's sudden wail of dismay that jerked Mei out of her meditation. With a start, she dropped her oiled cloth and leapt to her feet, looking down at her tiny companion. "Xiao Mei? What's wrong?"

"What is it? What happened?" A slightly-groggy voice came from behind her. Mei looked to see the future emperor Ling Yao hanging haphazardly out of his tent, chest bare and hair mussed from slumber. Blinking his eyes tiredly, he appeared half-asleep still.

Lan Fan however, did not.

She threw back the flap of the tent brusquely, already tying up her hair into its customary topknot. She had slept in her gi pants, but the hood of her uniform had obviously been too warm for the stifling desert heat. Instead she stood on alert now in a light undershirt, automail arm exposed and glinting in the sun.

It wasn't the only thing doing so either – a blood-red stone swung heavily on a chord around her neck, throwing back sunlight like a jewel: the Philosopher's Stone.

All sense of immediate danger discarded, Mei cried out. "_You_ are holding onto the stone? Why should you be the one to hold such an important treasure?"

"The fact that you are surprised proves the necessity," Lan Fan replied, eyes scanning the camp. "Any attackers are likely to expect the stone to reside either with Master Ling, as heir, or yourself, as alkahestrist. They would not expect a mere servant to carry the stone. Therefore my doing so gives us an advantage. Now, what is the trouble out here?" Instinctively, she moved to stand guard in front of Ling. "I do not sense any outside chi. What has disturbed the panda?"

Ling snorted with amusement. "Don't say that so seriously Lan Fan," he said as he exited the tent tiredly. Yawning, he rubbed the back of his neck and laughed. "'Disturbing the panda'. Ridiculous!"

Ignoring her accepted future king's unacceptably unkingly behavior – though she made a note to berate him later for his lack of shirt, and the way he'd peeked at Lan Fan's exposed tummy – Mei grabbed her knives. "It is _not_ ridiculous, Lord Ling! Something _did_ disturb Xiao Mei. I can feel it too."

"Bandits?" Lan Fan asked, bending into a crouch.

"No," Ling said. "I can't sense any chi." Still, he moved into a defensive stance, drawing out his sword slowly. Beside the camp, the three camels bellowed suddenly and stood, pulling at their tethers. Ling threw them all a dirty look. "Be quiet you!"

As one, they spat. Xiao Mei whimpered.

"My Lord," Lan Fan whispered urgently. "Listen."

Now mid-morning, the desert had quickly lost its tolerable night-time coolness – the air practically shimmered and swayed with heat. The wide expanse of sand rippled out behind it like an ocean of molten gold. Jagged rocks here and there cut into the scenery, but otherwise the terrain remained fire-yellow and barren.

How anything could live in this vast wasteland, she had no idea. But Mei could hear the whining drone of the desert insects. If she shut her eyes tightly and focused, the faint scratching sound of some small creature echoed across the way.

With every breath she tasted fire and dirt, could feel a burning on her brow and the salty sweat cracking her skin.

But she heard nothing more than bugs and rats.

Just when Mei had resigned herself to admitting that, perhaps, Xiao Mei had merely been having indigestion, a sudden rush of hot air blasted through the camp.

Its force blew Mei backwards, and she stumbled through the remnants of her earlier fire circle before regaining balance. "What was that?" she yelled frantically.

"Sire are you alright?"

"That was almost like when Gluttony opened its false portal!" The Xingese prince had abandoned all pretense of groggy light-heartedness. He stood now with sword in hand, scanning the area furiously. "It would send out a blast just like that before sucking in everything!"

As if on cue, another heavy gale whipped past them. Mei staggered at the sheer heat of it – if the desert had been unbearable before, the temperature had now reached a life-threatening peak.

Caught off guard, Ling fell to one knee. "But I don't sense anything!" he protested, holding a hand against his overheated face. "Nothing at all!"

"Mei Chang!" Lan Fan shouted. "Master – look!"

Mei obeyed, and felt her stomach drop. Xiao Mei peeked out of her tunic and let out a wail, clutching onto Mei's shoulder fearfully.

Approaching with a speed that was as awesome as it was daunting, was a mountain.

But it was no mountain as Mei knew them. This one billowed and roared, and most disturbingly _moved_, a tumbling wall of dust and sand and rock. It swirled in a mass of writhing blacks and browns, climbing well over thirty feet and spanning the distance of the horizon. And it was coming closer.

Mei watched, dumbfounded, as it rushed over a dune, kicking up more debris to join the towering cyclone.

"Ah ha ha ha!" Ling laughed hysterically. "Wow, you've got to be kidding me! A _sandstorm_? As if fighting the homunculi wasn't enough, now we've got to –"

But what exactly it was that they had to do, Ling did not get a chance to say. A third blast of boiling-hot air knocked the words right out from his mouth.

This time, the wind carried with it precursors of the rapidly-approaching storm. _Thud thud thud thud thud _– sharp rocks struck the ground like bullets, sending sand spraying into the air where it hovered before being swept upwards. The rush of dust in the air cut into Mei's face like a volley of needles.

"Sire, we must shelter ourselves!" A small trail of blood trickled from where a stone had struck Lan Fan's forehead; it mingled with sweat, becoming a pinkish smear all down her chin.

"What a wonderful idea, Lan Fan!" the prince shouted back, all humor gone from his voice. "Where, exactly, do you propose we go?"

The ground rumbled, sky darkening to a motley rusted-orange. The wall of the storm had grown painfully close. Mei looked around frantically, eyes lighting on the side of their camp where their camels had calmed considerably. They sat huddled close together, heads down and faced away from the oncoming storm. An idea struck her, and she called out:

"Get behind the camels," and tucked Xiao Mei back down into her shirt.

"What? Why?" Ling asked, though he and Lan Fan promptly followed Mei's lead. To Ling and Mei's great distress, Lan Fan paused to tie their belongings together. In a matter of moments, she had gathered their pots and weapons into a serviceable bundle. "Lan Fan!" Ling shouted. "The pans are more likely to survive the storm than you are!"

Lan Fan dashed over, carrying the bundle with her, and tied it securely to the back of her camel. "Yes my Lord. But our chances of survival are lessened if the wind blows your sabre into our backs."

Ling nodded. "Good thinking. Not so sure about the camels though, little sister," he said to Mei. At her direction, they all crouched down on the leeward side of the hunched creatures.

"'If you wish to find the flowers, follow the bees'," she explained. "These are desert animals by nature. They are best suited for enduring a sandstorm." She decided not to mention the two dead snakes, and how they had surely been desert animals as well.

Ling leaned against his camel with obvious distaste; Mei fastened her knives into their sheaths; and Lan Fan deftly used her bladed elbow to slice long strips of cloth from her pant leg. "My Lord, Mei Chang, tie these over your mouths. Keep your eyes closed!"

They fastened their make-shift kerchiefs and huddled close together. A beat. Between them both, Lan Fan grabbed Ling and Mei's wrists tightly. Sweat traced a thin river down Mei's neck. Xiao Mei sobbed.

Then the storm hit, and the world turned black.

Wind howled and moaned, the desert ground around them exploding in a whirling cloud of sand. Mei gripped Lan Fan's hand tighter, feeling her own small weight lift in the current. She buried her face in the camel's sweating hide, the animal shaking beneath her.

Heat billowed out over the camel's back like a solid force, striking and ripping at Mei's face til it bled. Through her mask, she could taste bitter dirt and dust, the tang of iron and salt. The air was so hot! So much worse than the uncomfortable warmth of a too-close fire, or the baking force of the sun. Breathing was impossible – the air so thick with heat that it swam like liquid. Her lungs burned.

The hand which wasn't gripping Lan Fan's clenched tightly over the lump Xiao Mei made in her tunic. Mei felt a disturbing, crackling sensation in her fingers. She remembered the dead snakes, and their bubbled and charred flesh, with panic.

"Lan Fan, what are you doing?" Lord Ling must have been shouting over the roaring storm, but Mei strained to hear him. It was as if he were speaking through a pillow – the wind whipped away his words ruthlessly. "Lan Fan! Do _not_ let go! Stop!"

The hand holding Mei's changed grips, and Mei felt her wrist transferred over and placed firmly into a larger, grasping one. It clenched like a vice. "Lan Fan?"

"No," Mei called, confused. She felt Lan Fan crab-walk around her, settling down so that Mei was now in the middle. She laced her fingers with Mei's where they shielded Xiao Mei. "But I've got her! She took my other hand!"

"Why did she - "

The storm swelled; Mei vibrated with the force of it. Her scalp throbbed from where the wind yanked cruelly at her hair, and the knives in her belt grew hotter with every passing second. Mei could feel them, even through the many thick layers of their sheaths, her belt, her pants, and her tunic. They burned.

So many noises! The camel's were mowing, boulders and sand crashing and slapping against each other like thunder. Ling was shouting something unintelligible. Xiao Mei wailed, and Mei could not stop the tiny whimpers from welling in her throat. The camel next to Mei's, the one supporting Lan Fan, jerked and bellowed, twisting and kicking beneath her. Someone was sobbing.

Mei wondered if this was hell, and thought – bizarrely – of the homunculus Envy. Would this storm burst the tender flesh of her face as well? Would fire sizzle in her eyes, until they boiled and writhed?

Lan Fan screamed, _screamed_, and Mei heard it loudly. Clearly, too – the wind was calming. The storm receded like a tidal wave – having crashed, lifted, and swelled, it now abated almost demurely.

It left with a whisper, wind rustling through their clothes and hair. Ears ringing, Mei lifted her head to look out. Dust and sand fell in clumps from her hair and lashes, stinging into her eyes painfully. Blurred brown was the first thing she saw, her forehead scratched lightly by the wiry fur of her camel. She released Ling and Lan Fan's hand and took a breath, coughed.

"Re... re-group," she heard Ling whisper to himself. "Re-grou... Is everyone alright? Lan Fan? Mei? ...Panda?"

Xiao Mei chirped pitifully, rolling out from Mei's shirt to lay prone on the blasted sand. Mei cleared her throat and swallowed a lump of grime. "I'm – I'm okay, I think."

Silence.

"Lan Fan?"

"I am...not well," a high voice trembled. Mei looked over, and gasped. Lan Fan lay curled awkwardly, shoulder arched unnaturally away from the rest of her body. Ling was by her side in an instant.

"What's wrong?" he asked, face set and stern.

Lan Fan said nothing through her clenched teeth, but Mei could see the problem instantly. The thin straps of her undershirt had shifted to the side, exposing the flesh of Lan Fan's shoulder. On one side, the pale skin was completely fine – if not sunburned and sand-scratched. The other, the one connected to her automail, was far from normal. Ling reached out to lay a hand on the shoulder, and promptly yelped. He looked at his palm, saw it reddened and burned, and peered more closely at Lan Fan's automail.

"Mei!" Ling called, eyes wider and more panicked than Mei had ever seen them. "Hurry and heal her!"

The extreme heat of the sandstorm had been caught and held by the bright metal body of Lan Fan's arm. Mei remembered her knives, and how they had burned her skin even through her many layers of clothing. Lan Fan had had no such protection – the hot metal connected directly to the tender flesh of her body.

Mei stared, sickened, as Lan Fan twitched stiffly. "What are you doing?" Ling shouted. "Get over here!"

Snapped out of her daze, she dashed forward. "Grab the water sacks – we need to cool down her arm." Ling obeyed, and the water sizzled and steamed as it poured over the heated metal. Once the dirt and sand had been washed away from her arm, Mei could see the damage.

She felt ill. The areas farther from the arm did not look quite as bad, though still severe. Multiple folds of skin had peeled away, but the flesh was slick and glistening – meaning the sweat glands had not been burned away. The surrounding skin looked flaky and swollen, a blister the size of Mei's palm swelling on Lan Fan's clavicle. Excruciatingly painful and ugly, yes, but largely superficial. They would heal in time.

But the flesh in immediate contact with the automail had been seared as if touched with a branding iron. No, that was wrong...it had been cooked, broiled from the inside-out. The top layers of skin peeled, curled and black along the edges. What worried Mei most was the lining of pus, yellow and oozing out from where the automail joined with human tissue.

First, even second, degree burns were healed with relative ease – if the damage had gone deep, however, she doubted just how well she could heal the wound.

Without wasting time, Mei grabbed a fistful of wet sand and drew a simple alkahestry circle on Lan Fan's chest, spanning the distance from her sternum to the very edge of the minor burns. She concentrated on the flow of chi within Lan Fan, finding it erratic and wincing, and gently directed it towards the surface, speeding up the regenerative capabilities of the skin cells. The redness paled, and the enormous blister shriveled and shrunk back down.

Lan Fan had opened her eyes, and was staring steadily down into the sand. "I am sor- "

"Don't apologize," Ling ordered. "This is not your fault. Do you understand?"

She looked up, and Mei was startled to see something that, had it not been so outrageously against all Xingese customs, might have suggested something more than servile devotion. "Yes, my prince."

"So this is why you let go of Mei's hand during the storm." Ling said softly. He looked over to the camel which Lan Fan had crouched against. A thick patch of fur had been burned away, and the animal was licking the damaged area frantically. "You should heal the camel as well, Mei, once you fix Lan Fan."

His faith in her abilities would have been touching, in any other situation. Mei focused on the damaged flesh along the metal of Lan Fan's arm, noting with concern that the area along the seam of the automail looked charred, black and dry as ash. "Lan Fan," she asked worriedly, poking a finger gently against the affected skin. "Can you feel this?"

"No. It does not hurt as badly, Mei Chang, as the rest," she answered matter-of-factly, voice calm despite her unnaturally pale and drawn face. Mei frowned. Quickly drawing another circle around the area, she closed her eyes and felt for the flow of chi within the wound.

There was none.

Alarmed Mei delved deeper, growing increasingly distressed as the nerves around the burn sparked with blocked energy. She pushed more, extended her awareness further into Lan Fan's arm, and let out a sympathetic whimper.

Ling looked almost angry. "What is it?" he asked, pouring more water over the gradually cooling area.

Swallowing, Mei placed her palms over the pentagram. The points glowed a bright blue, the color sinking slowly into Lan Fan's skin. "The heat from her automail burned away many of her nerves and cells – I can increase the healing rate of damaged cells, but I can't create _new_ ones." The alkahestry circle seemed to be taking affect, Lan Fan wincing as her burned nerves sent awakened alert after alert of increasing pain. "And that's just on the surface. The automail is joined directly _to _her nerve endings. Many are gone. The bone that's connected to the metal is also severely damaged."

She drew yet another circle and forced it deep into Lan Fan's flesh. "I don't think I can do much more than this."

Ling looked down at his bodyguard's arm, patchy and molted and raw. "Lan Fan," he said, voice low. "Move your arm."When nothing happened, he growled. "Can you move your arm at all?"

Lan Fan screwed her eyes shut tight. Her breathing came in short, pained pants, and Mei could see the muscles beneath her skin quivering desperately. "I...I cannot." Her black eyes, when opened, stared upwards with despair. "I cannot." Connected as she was to Lan Fan's presence, Mei felt the frantically-surging rush of the girl's aura ebb down to a defeated hum. Lan Fan tipped her head and looked blankly at her useless arm. "I am...again?" Her voice cracked. "Useless? ...my Lord..."

Mei was surprised when Ling did not share in Lan Fan's distress. "Right then. That's no good." And without preamble he reached over and plucked the Philosopher's Stone from around her neck.

"Here," he said. The stone fell innocently into Mei's palm. "Take however much you need to heal all the damage."

Life struck back into Lan Fan's eyes like a match. "Sire!" she protested, scooting away. But Ling held her down ruthlessly, unapologetic. Mei stared dumbly at the red rock, and felt its power thrum through her own chi paths.

"What use are you to me if your arm is gone?" Ling said with a cruelty that Mei understood as a great kindness. Lan Fan would not accept selfless altruism from her lord, and so Ling disguised his motivations. "It's no problem at all, Lan Fan. Hold...still...! Listen to me! If the homunculus Gluttony could regenerate his entire body multiple times with one stone, then healing a simple wound won't destroy the one we have." Still, Lan Fan struggled. Ling was forced to lean heavily on her injured shoulder to keep her down, and a cry ripped its way out of her throat.

"Hurry Mei!" Ling barked, face pale. Mei hesitated, struck stupid by the sight of her half-brother ruthlessly hurting his injured and dear friend. But she saw the hand that was not holding down Lan Fan's shoulder reach up to cup the side of her face, and she watched as Ling looked down at Lan Fan's clenched eyes with remorse.

Her hands were shaky, and her vision blurred, but Mei obeyed. She managed to draw a passable pentagram around Lan Fan's arm. The stone pulsed in her palm, power running through her veins like an electrical current. This time, when she searched for the flow of chi within the wound, an additional dimension of _something _hovered just over the damaged area. Like a shadow, or perhaps an after-image, of what should have been there naturally, Mei could detect the many nerves and cells and veins that belonged in Lan Fan's arm.

In fact, for one terrifying moment, Mei could feel an entire whole arm, free of automail, hovering just beyond her senses. The knowledge whispered through her mind, that if she only exerted a little more energy, she might restore Lan Fan's entire arm. But the whisper sounded too much like the envious homunculus that had drawn her back to Central City, and Mei blocked out the temptation. Besides, she had never healed with a Philosopher's Stone before. She did not know what would happen if she tugged at that image of a perfect human arm. She did know, however, that Lan Fan saw her entire body as a weapon. She must therefore want to keep the automail, right? Lan Fan would never forgive her, if Mei "wasted" the stone's energy by healing what, in the bodyguard's opinion, only made Lan Fan more deadly.

So Mei ignored the possibility trembling just outside her reach, and instead focused on rebuilding the deadened flesh. Lan Fan panted with pain as bone and tissue and sinew grew back and healed, and Ling looked on with grave solemnity.

"Sire," Lan Fan breathed through gritted teeth as Mei worked. "You are my prince. You must not do so much for a mere servant." Ling released her shoulders and sat back on his haunches, watching his vassal closely.

"Lan Fan," he replied coolly. "I am your prince. You must not tell me what to do."

Mei laughed as she felt the danger pass, and looked to see the flesh around the automail healed and unmarred. There was no trace, even, of the scars from where metal joined with flesh. The skin was as smooth and pale as a princess'.

Ling sighed with relief, and Lan Fan immediately shot to her feet. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes snapped with confused frustration. After a moment, however, she touched her shoulder gently. Slowly, deliberately, she moved her metal arm.

Mei noticed with surprise that the usual creaks and whirs which typically accompanied Lan Fan's movements were absent. A slow, almost invisible smile played across Lan Fan's face, and she turned and bowed so deeply to Mei that her forehead hovered above the ground. "I will treasure your gift, Lady Chang. My most sincere thanks."

Mei sat back and made an unattractive and exhausted noise. The stone had drawn back its power from Mei's chi, leaving a yawning absence in its wake. She stood and passed the stone back to Ling. Its size had not diminished, unaffected by the minor miracle it had worked. Unceremoniously, Ling tossed the stone into the air, catching it back up triumphantly.

"Definitely worth the trouble, don't you think?" he asked lightly, a satisfied smirk making his eyes narrow. Lan Fan looked down, clearly torn between gratitude and mortification.

She glowered at the wind-blown pebbles and muttered, "Master Ling, I appreciate your sacrifice. If you do not mind, however, I shall refrain from requiring your protection in the future."

A harsh bellow startled and interrupted Ling's response. With a sigh, Mei got up, stumbling, and made her way over to the deeply enraged camel, healing its shallow wound easily.

"Somebody else take over, now," she said, almost grumpily. "My watch is done."

* * *

><p>The idea of the Philosopher's Stone having been used to heal a mere servant obviously violated a personal code of Lan Fan's. It took an entire day of flustered bafflement to get over the offense. It only took another hour after that, however, for her stunned gratitude to fade. "Mei Chang," she said with notably less animosity than usual. "I cannot believe you wasted so much of our drinking water, pouring it over my arm."<p>

Mei promised to be less considerate, in the future.


	4. Days, Seven to Thirteen

**Disclaimer**: All ownership of the amazing world of Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to Arakawa.

**Author's Note**: I am back from camping! Had a wonderful time, got dreadfully ill, and managed to get some writing done in-between. Just as an FYI, I wonder about the strangest minor details while writing this fic. For example, I've thought extensively over what Xiao Mei eats all the time. If anyone cares, she sometimes eats bits of the camel's feed but mostly consumes large amounts of jerky. If you are disturbed at the thought of a panda eating dried-out rabbit, that's okay. So am I.

**Author's Question**: Does anybody know why most of the Ling/Lan Fan fiction on this site is listed under Ling/Madame Christmas? I find this very odd and vaguely nauseating.

* * *

><p><strong>Day Seven<strong>

An odd tickle in her lungs kept Mei awake through most of the morning, as though she had breathed in too much dirt and it was sticking in little clumps to the insides of her lungs. It was painful, and made breathing extremely uncomfortable. But she was a princess of the Chang family, not some weakling who couldn't handle a sore throat. So Mei took a leaf out of Lan Fan's book, and stoutly ignored the cough.

By midday, a fierce fever had broken her resolve and seen her bed-ridden, gasping and wheezing for air. Lan Fan watched with furrowed brows as the young girl retched weakly, and Ling insisted on taking over Mei's watch while she rested. Xiao Mei attended her mistress stubbornly, patting the washcloth against Mei's brow and chirping pitifully.

While the desert cooled as night fell, Mei's fever did not, and both Ling and Lan Fan declared her unfit for travel. They relocated camp to a more secure area, and settled down to wait out Mei's illness. Lan Fan hunted, and did her best to boil a broth that Mei could stomach. Ling sat outside his sister's tent and glared at the two steadily shrinking skins, which held the last of their water.

**Day Eight**

The small cliff under which they stayed stank slightly of mold and some kind of nesting animal, but its shade was a blessing from the rising sun. Sitting cross-legged, with his back to the shelter, Ling neither saw nor heard Lan Fan emerge from the tent. Years of training had left her steps silent, making less noise than the sun as it beat upon the sand.

Still Ling could sense her chi, steady and calm, and therefore did not startle when she suddenly appeared, crouched, at his elbow. Together they sat in the shade, watching as the dawn progressed and forced back the cliff's shadow, inch by creeping inch.

"How's she doing?"

"The fever has not yet broken." As she spoke, a small brown lizard with bulbous eyes and sharp, pointed horns scurried across the rocks. Lightening-quick, it shot up towards a crack in the boulders – Ling thought for a moment that it might make it, but then _thok!_ The lizard slumped, dead and hanging, pinned against the stone wall by a long senbon. Ling had not even heard Lan Fan shift beside him for the throw, yet she continued her report without pause. "And there is a dry rattle in her lungs which disturbs me."

Ling nodded, weighing their options as Lan Fan rose to fetch her weapon and kill. Her movements startled two mice out from their dens as well, and within moments they shared the same fate as the lizard. Three small animals, all thinner than his wrist – they would make a meager breakfast.

He waited for Lan Fan to finish collecting, watching as she meticulously cleaned and stored her throwing-needles, before he announced his decision. "I know that you were scouting to avoid others while we were traveling, Lan Fan. It was a good thing to do. We don't exactly need any extra attention. But we _do_ need water, and Mei needs help. I think it's time you changed tack, and found us some civilization."

"Yes, my Lord. Shall I return with them, or come back to fetch you?"

Ling considered. "We don't want to make enemies, so avoid blatant theft and abduction if you can." He regarded her solemnly. "Don't hesitate if you have no other options."

"Yes, my Lord." Habit dropped Lan Fan down to one knee in a respectful bow, and she took a deep breath to ready herself for her journey. Realizing her intent, Ling placed his hand on her shoulder just before she could dash away.

"I didn't mean for you to leave right away," he said, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "Wait until dusk, okay? Then see what you can find."

Beneath his hand, Ling felt small tremors shake through Lan Fan, and could guess at their cause. The shade provided by the cliffs was only marginally less hot than the surrounding desert, but Ling knew that Lan Fan's arm held both the heat and the cold stubbornly. So early in the morning, it would still be chilled from the night before.

He wondered how it felt, having something so cold bolted directly into your bones. He wondered if it felt good to her, when the sun rose and the steel gradually warmed and thawed out the chill from her joints. He wondered, with an odd thrill, if maybe _his_ hand felt good to her, already quite warm and pressed firmly against her shoulder.

Moving his thumb against her cool skin, hopefully light enough that Lan Fan wouldn't notice, he asked, "are you cold?"

"No, my Lord," she replied promptly, yet her shoulder still trembled under his warm palm. He could feel the firmness of her muscles quivering beneath his fingers, the delicate curve of her collarbone pressing against his thumb. The sun had left freckles there, he saw, on the soft skin of her neck, beneath the flecks of mud and sand.

As she knelt, her pants torn and uneven from her constant ripping of them for masks and rags, Lan Fan's knees showed scuffed and red.

The future king looked down at his servant and smiled sadly. "I work you too hard, Lan Fan."

"No, my Lord," she insisted, eyes still turned down subserviently. Allowing himself the indulgence, Ling looked closer and discovered that even more freckles had appeared around Lan Fan's nose, a scattered trail dusted across her cheekbones, a tiny whorl by her temple.

Without a thought, Ling brought up his other hand to cup her face, fully intending to follow the pattern with his thumb and fully forgetting all the reasons why he shouldn't. But at his touch, Lan Fan startled and jerked back. Looking up sharply, she grew still and wide-eyed as a frightened deer.

Ling dropped his hands immediately.

Throat tight, he found that he didn't have to fake the lightness in his voice when he laughed. "Well anyway, I think I'm about to pass out! It's high time for breakfast. And you know what would really hit the spot? Dead rats." He pretended to catch sight of the rodents in Lan Fan's hand, and clutched his heart dramatically. "And what do I see before me, but dead rats! What are the chances? Hungry, Lan Fan?" Beneath his fingers, he could feel his pulse thrum erratically.

"Yes, my Lord."

* * *

><p>Mei's gasping breaths had grown weaker as the sun fell, and Lan Fan wasted no time in securing her weapons for her journey. She had spent the day quite productively, and a heap of skinned and gutted animals piled back in the cave as proof of her labor.<p>

Still, she worried that Ling would run out of food before her return. Steadfastly ignoring her lord's insistence that he _could_ go out and find his own food, Lan Fan scattered the entrails of her kills around the edge of their shelter. Hopefully the smell would bait larger animals, allowing Ling to "hunt" without leaving Mei unattended.

With food provided for and safety relatively secured (she had also insisted on leaving behind a majority of her bombs), Lan Fan tied the Yang mask in place and pulled up her hood. She bowed deeply to Ling and then fled, quick and soft as moonlight.

Ling remained behind, feeling more than useless as he held a dwindling bag of feed up for the camels to slobber through. "I am sick and tired," he told the grunting, chewing animals. "Of not being able to do anything. I am sick and tired of my companions sacrificing themselves for me, or getting injured, or dying of the plague or whatever it is that Mei has. And I can't do a single thing about it, even though I have a Philosopher's Stone. As soon as I become Emperor of Xing, I'm learning alkahestry."

He moved the feed away from his camel and it grunted, biting at his bangs in protest. It tugged painfully, and Ling scowled, batting it away. Combing his fingers through his hair, he grimaced when they came back covered in slimy oats. "The second thing I'll do when I'm Emperor," he growled at the pack of smug animals, "is order the three of you, euthanized."

The camels all looked decidedly unimpressed.

Moving on to feed the last beast, Ling's thoughts drifted back to alkahestry. It was more than useful, and he was certain that he could learn it. He just wasn't sure if the Emperor of Xing was _allowed_ to practice alkahestry. Mei would know; she was always instructing him on how he should behave as king. The bossy little thing...but she was ill now, and he worried for her. Mei was his friend, his ally, _his_ little sister, _his -_

- his. He was thinking like Greed. Again.

Ling shuddered. He pulled the drawstrings tight on the pouch, ignoring the outraged bellow of the camels, and slid to the ground. Knees drawn up, face buried in his hands, he exhaled, slowly.

Forget alkahestry. Ling was pretty sure former homunculi shouldn't rule countries either.

"I'm not him. I'm not him. I'm not. I'm not, I'm not, I'm _not_."

Sometimes it felt as if hosting a homunculus had marked him irreversibly, as if his soul had been stained, like the inside of a cup dyed brown from holding tea for too long. Greed had been a decent companion, and a true friend in the end, but he had still been avaricious to the extreme. And Ling, through the homunculus, had felt and thought things which he would never have done with his own mind.

For example, when Greed had learned of Ling's goal of succession, he had subsequently discovered the arrangement of the Fifty Wives. An immediate demand for _more_ had shuddered in Ling's mind. _But why only fifty?_ the homunculus had whispered. _Become Emperor, rule the country, and take **them all**. Why stop there, though? Lord of the World – every person, and every woman, mine and mine alone!_

There had been a disturbing sense of rightness to the thought, and Ling had felt it like a gavel in his gut. The other greedy souls in the Philosopher's Stone had screamed their agreement, howling, bawling, chanting into his spirit: _mine mine mine_.

Breathing deeply through his nose, Ling rubbed at his temples with shaking hands. He, Ling Yao, had never wanted the Fifty Wives. He was a Royal Child - he had grown up knowing first-hand the terrible results the system had on children.

The Elric brothers had been right to laugh at the image of Ling leading a princely life. While he had been raised knowing exactly who he was and what he would someday become, Ling had not grown up in opulence.

The Royal Children of Xing were far too numerous to house in the palace. Instead they were sent to be raised by the most affluent members of their clans, usually relatives of the Wife. However, the Yao Wife had been an only child, and so Lan Fan's second aunt had served as his wet nurse, and later his surrogate mother.

In all his life, Ling had visited the Golden Palace no more than twenty times, and none of them were particularly enjoyable. Mostly, they consisted of annual visits on his birthday to his Honorable Mother, speaking respectfully to a silhouette behind a screen. He had never seen his father.

The first assassination attempt on his life had occurred during his third year, at the hand of an older sister. Ling remembered watching, wide-eyed, as Luan Kwan-Chin, tenth princess of Xing, had been solidly dispatched by one of his older cousins. They'd sent her body back to the Kwan-Chin clan, wrapped respectfully and accompanied by ten pieces of silver. She had been sixteen years old.

His cousins had never tried to assassinate each other. His cousins had known both of their parents, had seen them everyday. Ling had promised himself from an early age that no child of his would ever have to fear his brothers and sisters. No child of his would wonder what their parents looked like.

This resolve had only strengthened during his time in Amestris, seeing the bond between the Elrics in all its glory: brothers who would laugh together, fight together, die for each other. Ling swore that the families of Xing would be modeled in that likeness, driven by love instead of ambition.

He, Ling Yao, had never wanted the Fifty Wives, never mind every woman in the world. But some dark part of him, back in that loud and screaming place, had hummed with approval along with the tide of all that Greed, echoing back _mine mine mine_.

Ling sighed and rested his head back against the belly of his camel. "The third thing I'll do when I'm Emperor, is dissolve the harem." He looked into the camel's narrowed and dewy eyes and shrugged jovially. "I mean, _fifty?_ Let's be reasonable. With these good looks, I wouldn't stand a chance! I may be young and virile, but even I couldn't keep up with so many ladies clamoring after me." No, instead the wives would re-enter society and join his people, his subjects, his. Still his.

_That _was what he wanted: a nation of his own, that worked under his own ideals. He idly toyed with the Philosopher Stone draped around his neck, trusted into his keeping while Lan Fan was away, and plotted out not for the first time how he would use it to manipulate his father from the throne.

As the sole guard of their camp, Ling could not afford to sleep. With plans of a coup, a sick patient to wait upon, and plenty of meat to strip and cook, he succeeded in distracting himself throughout the night. And if the image of wide and surprised black eyes flashed through his mind once or twice, or if his fingers burned with the memory of trembling soft skin, he told himself it was nothing to worry about. _(Mine.)_

**Day Nine**

Lan Fan did not return in the morning.

Ling filled the silence by attempting to threaten Mei's camel, which had taken to laying on its side moaning pitifully, back into good health. It did not respond to promises of abandonment, or consumption. Neither did it listen to Ling's very sensible lecture on the follies of sympathy-illness. "No matter how sick Mei is, you laying there is not going to make her better." The camel merely lowed piteously. It did, however, flick its tail with irritation when Ling declared it too sick to eat. He considered it a step in the right direction.

To his immense relief, Mei's fever finally broke. Unfortunately, the young girl now shivered uncontrollably and was coughing up things black and green. Ling did his best to keep her rest area clean, and heaped every blanket they owned on top of her. Xiao Mei lay on top of the pile, refusing to leave her mistress's side. During her brief lucid moments, Ling forced spoonful after spoonful of broth down Mei's throat, desperate to get some food into the girl.

"You should not be in here, Lord Brother," Mei had protested weakly when she'd gained enough awareness to recognize her nurse. "It is not proper."

"Shut up," Ling had responded, firmly not caring about the custom which dictated Ling, a male, away from the sick bed of a woman. "You're my sister, so the rules don't really apply. Plus, who else will make sure you eat?"

"Where..." Mei had wheezed. "Where is Lan Fan?"

"She's out hunting. She'll be back sometime tonight. Now try to keep some of this down."

* * *

><p>"I'm also sick and tired," Ling said conversationally to his camel that night, "Of people who are supposed to be my subjects telling me what to do. I'm their King. If I want to help, I will." It spat derisively. "And if I want to skin you alive when we run out of food, I will."<p>

It would not be necessary. Lan Fan's bait had drawn out a fox and two coyotes, and Ling added their meat ruefully to the impressive pile of rations. "I'm also just plain tired. I haven't slept in days. I'm thirsty too."

Lan Fan did not return.

**Day Ten**

Ling looked into the empty water skin and up at the sweltering sun. His fourth grand act as Emperor, he announced to his camel, would be to outlaw deserts. They were completely unnecessary and, to be frank, a downright bitch.

Mei weakly reprimanded his un-kingly language from her tent, sent into a series of hoarse coughs for her efforts. Ling swore to never swear again (and recognized the irony), and promised to leave five jade bracelets at the altar of whatever god would condescend to save his sister.

**Day Eleven**

Mei's fever came back.

Ling's vision began to swim.

And Lan Fan did not return.

**Day Twelve**

The tall man, face obscured by a brown-striped turban, shook at the point of Ling's sabre. Blood, red as the tall man's eyes, trickled daintily down the blade, and a crazed thought of just how _thirsty _he was caused Ling to lick his dry and split lips.

Then, a blessed and beautiful voice protested, "my Lord!", and Ling lowered his weapon with relief at the sight of a sand-covered, badly burnt Lan Fan leading a supply-laden camel. "He is a doctor, my Lord."

The tall man glared, and Ling shrugged. "You should have said something, then," he said lightly. Sheathing his sword, he turned to grin at Lan Fan, and collapsed for the first time since leaving Amestris.

**Day Thirteen**

Scalp twinging and something wet trailing down the side of his face, Ling awoke some time later to find his camel chewing contentedly on his hair. He was laying beside a pool of crystal water, under the shade of something green and fragrant.

"I'd think I died and made it to heaven, except no god in his right mind would let you in as well." His camel simply drooled more vigorously, and Ling rolled away with a disgusted grunt.

"I'd show more gratitude, if I were you." A fat and balding Ishvalan sat, amused, by Ling's side. "That beast carried you here with great speed. Here, drink this." A cup of something sweet and cool rested beneath his nose, and Ling gulped down a mouthful. "No more, or you'll get sick. You have extraordinary luck. Do you make a habit of fainting in the middle of nowhere?"

Ling laughed. "Find me some food, and I'll tell you."

* * *

><p>"Next time, Lan Fan, do take your time in coming to my rescue. I didn't have the chance to relish the feeling of wasting away. And in Mei's case, well, who really <em>needs<em> two lungs anyway?"

Red-faced and extremely apologetic, Lan Fan ran to fetch more food and water. From her blanket next to him, a recovering Mei told Ling in no uncertain terms what she thought of his childish teasing. "I'm fine, Lord Ling. And you are fine as well. Poor Lan Fan nearly broke her neck getting back to us. Besides, Xiao Mei was taking good care of me." Her voice was raw, but strong, and she sat with her panda in her lap with all the regal bearing of a queen.

Ling snorted and closed his eyes, intent on sleeping for at least a decade.


	5. Day Fourteen

**Author's Note: **So, a bunch of people have been PM-ing me about my inspiration for the geography of this story. (Wow! People are interested in that? Awesome!) In case anybody else is wondering, I mostly use information about the Taklamakan desert. I thought it was fitting, since the Taklamakan has the presence of both Chinese and Muslim peoples, which remind me of the Xingese and Ishvalans, respectively.

People have also been saying that the heat in this story is well described. Thank you. I live in Texas. It's very hot.

A longer chapter this time, as a treat to those who patiently waited its arrival.

* * *

><p><strong>Day Fourteen<strong>

Nasesh-Arem, what Lan Fan eventually learned the Ishvalans called their home, had not been easy to find. No tracks, caravan or human or otherwise, had lead her to its borders. Instead, following the faintest echo of chi, Lan Fan had happened to spot a small outcropping of rocks. From her perspective, they had appeared to be no more than a gradual heaping of short boulders, and nothing more.

Lan Fan had approached them – during her frantic hunt for people, food, water, and _help_ – with no other purpose than to perhaps shelter between some of the larger boulders. She remembered how her short, dehydrated pants had echoed off the red-brown stones, filling her ears with a low hum of noise.

Only a moment later had she realized, once her breathing had calmed, that the humming sounds did not resonate with the desert noise with which she had grown so accustomed. The pads of her fingers had scraped against the rough rocks as she stilled, picking out the sounds of movement: faint rustles and bustles and snatches of unnatural sound.

Suddenly, a sharp _shout_ of booming laughter had descanted over the noise and carried into her ears. She had snapped into action instantly. Animals did not laugh, _people _laughed. And people meant civilization, and civilization meant help. Only a small barrier of rocks had stood between herself and her goal, and Lan Fan had looked up with confidence at the wall before her. The meager crop of boulders stood no taller than nine feet, rising on a steady incline. Lan Fan had it scaled in seconds.

She scrambled up the final stone in her hast, and promptly almost lost her footing. Without warning, the boulders gave way sharply, plunging some fifty feet below her. Lan Fan had been lucky not to have fallen - even she, with all her training, would have found it impossible to escape shuch a fall.

That outcropping upon which Lan Fan had stood was the head of Nasesh, the western wall of the village. A fierce and jagged cliff, Nasesh dropped steeply down and down before evening out to curve upwards. Eventually the line carried up enough to form the gently-sloping eastern wall, a face which the Ishvalans called Arem. The village of Nasesh-Arem lay tucked up snuggly between the resulting valley, their flat-roofed clay buildings blending in with the russet cliffs.

Largest and most ornate of those buildings sat the highest on Nasesh's cliff-side, rising well above the rest of the village. It had been into that building that Lan Fan had burst, completely without tact, demanding to speak with whomever held authority.

The poor young guard at the entrance had stuttered with surprise when she'd seized his shoulders, half-pleading and half-threatening: _"A traveling companion of mine is gravely ill, and still out in the desert. I require any assistance you can give me!" _The guard had nodded, dumbstruck at her sudden appearance, before leading her swiftly through the building's high doors.

It was in that building, a high temple of Ishvala, where she now sat in extreme discomfort.

A long and squat table stretched out before her. Fingers clenched tightly on her thighs beneath the dark wood, a line of cold sweat gathering at her nape, Lan Fan fought to keep her composure. Her back ached from being held for so long in such a stiff and straight fashion.

"Remember your training," she pleaded with her muscles, willing them into stillness. "You are a servant to the Yao family. You are stoic. You are calm. You are _proud_…" Her shoulders twitched. Against her will she fidgeted, and despaired. "You are _pathetic_!"

As if to further her embarrassment, Lan Fan flushed hotly, betraying any attempts at stoicism. "So much for strong and calm," she berated herself. "Grandfather would be so disappointed in me…"

Across the table, an elderly Ishvalan laughed. He had introduced himself as Hamou, and clearly served as religious patriarch of this small community. Short and gangly, with tufts of white hair puffing out like wild dandelions, he sat with dignity and ease. A simple green chain hung around his neck as proof of his authority, clashing slightly with the light robes he wore.

"Miss Lan Fan, please," he said with a kind smile. "There is no need to hold yourself back so. Please, take advantage of our hospitality."

With an almost lazy wave of his leathery hand, he gestured towards Lan Fan's source of discomfort. She followed the movement, looking down at the spray of temptation before her.

There was so. Much. Food!

_Fresh_ food: piles of rounded flatbread and small bowls of shining honey; cactus berries and glistening slices of chilled melon; tiny apples (were those apples?); fat, green figs and, to Lan Fan's extreme delight, mounds of white fluffy rice. Having sustained herself for so long on nothing but dried meat, meat stew, and roasted (burnt on the nights Mei cooked) meat-kabobs, Lan Fan's mouth watered at the sight of such variety.

Still, "I will wait for my – my friend," she insisted, trying not to flinch at her slip-up. How could she have almost said "my Lord"? Master Ling's whispered instructions, as he had slumped against her atop his camel, had been very precise.

"_Do not," he slurred into her ear as they raced across the desert. "Let them know who I am. Or Mei. The Shitong clan has ties to the Ishvalan nomads. These people can't be trusted." Some several paces ahead of them, the Ishvalan doctor showed no signs of having heard anything. His attention was commanded by Xiao Mei, perched and snarling on the camel's head, as he held a weak Mei in his arms._

_Understanding her instructions, Lan Fan nodded, and promptly flushed when Master Ling rested his forehead against her shoulder with a sigh. Despite the fading heat, Lan Fan shivered when his breath ghosted across the exposed skin at her throat. Arms tightening around her waist, Master Ling pulled her back into a tight hug. "It is _so very_ good to see you, Lan Fan. Well done. Are we there yet?" His weight suddenly slumped forward, sparing her from answering as he fainted._

And yet here she had almost given away his identity, through mere force of habit! Hamou tilted his head to the side, shrewd red eyes considering her beneath shaggy white brows. "Your consideration is admirable," he said finally. "But in vain. Your friend will not be joining us this morning. Doctor Pirro has expressed his opinion that he requires at least one more day of bed rest." He regarded her kindly over laced fingers. "And you have not eaten in quite a while yourself. Please eat. I would like for you to sample the foods which we have to offer."

Inwardly recoiling at the thought of indulging while her lord remained bed-ridden, Lan Fan stiffly picked up a flat clay bowl of fruit and took a delicate bite. Chilled sweetness washed over her palate, and her delight must have shown on her face, because Hamou once again chuckled.

"Strange, is it not, how going without can increase the value of such a simple thing?"

He spoke pointedly, and Lan Fan felt as though she had missed something. Peeking up through her bangs, she saw that Hamou was watching her eat with something close to anticipation. Swallowing another bite, she nodded suspiciously.

"And I understand that you are something of a provider for your two companions. You must be very strong indeed, to procure so much meat for the two of them." Hamou smiled, moving the wrinkles around his brown face in ripples. "Please, try the rice. It is delicious. Easy to prepare as well." He watched carefully.

Wary, back stiff now with apprehension rather than forced manners, Lan Fan reached for a bowl of the steaming rice. The familiar taste and texture of the food relaxed her stomach. In Xing, rice was such a prominent staple, present with every meal, that she had been shocked to not find it in Amestris.

Hamou waited until Lan Fan had taken a few more generous bites, before asking her smugly:

"And how is the taste? Different, I am sure, than what you are used to? Do not forget to try the glazed figs. They were prepared specifically with your approval in mind."

Keeping her expression neutral, Lan Fan extended her senses to detect the Hamou's chi. It coiled and frayed sporadically, and Lan Fan frowned. Hamou was anxious, and extremely nervous, as he watched her eat.

Bewildered with the old man's token interest in her consumption, Lan Fan obediently reached to spoon out a small portion of the fruit. Really, she thought, there was far too much food for two people. And Hamou wasn't even eating….

She froze, fig halfway to her mouth, and looked at the Ishvalan priest with wide eyes. Master Ling's words echoed through her mind. _"They are not to be trusted."_ She remembered also, the vast array of desert poisons that would be available to this community.

With forced calm, she set the bowl down with a clatter, mind racing as she laced her hands under the table, fingering the senbon needles hidden in her sleeves.

"Not to your liking?" The priest asked.

Lan Fan did not respond, but instead took stock of her situation. Master Ling and Mei Chang (and the panda) rested in a medical facility a little further down the cliff. Depending on the strength of whatever poison she had been given, Lan Fan estimated she could make it to them in time to warn her lord and perhaps take out any assassins stationed around him.

Behind her, she sensed the approaching presences of two slowly-moving men, both holding something heavy. So, they thought to sneak up on _her_, a guardian of the Yao family? Fools. Breathing deeply through her nose, Lan Fan did a quick run-through of her plan of attack.

"_Hamou is the closest – possibly armed. Upend the table to stun him. One second. Next the guards – tall and strong, ten feet behind me on the right and left. They'll be distracted by the sudden motion. Turn. Two senbon each: carotid artery, and eyeball. Kunai to the sternum. Three seconds. Turn, leap, finish off Hamou – knee to the groin, snap his neck. Two seconds._

"_Exit window, navigate the streets…no…effects from poison will make me conspicuous. Take to the rooftops. Reach medical facility – thirty seconds – flashbomb to stun. Retrieve Master Ling and -"_

Hamou sighed, unlacing his fingers to wave the two men forward. "I will be blunt with you then, Miss Lan Fan," he said. "We are a humble community, dependent upon our crops for survival. Your young friend will not be healthy enough to travel for at least three days." Blood-red eyes looked sadly out from the old man's face. "And you have something that we want. That we need. Very badly."

The stone? Lan Fan bit back a snarl, and leapt to her feet. A heavy noise from her left and right, hard and fast thuds slamming into the ground, and she swiveled to see the two guards, panting with exertion. At their feet lay several large baskets, filled to the brim with bags of grain and rice and fruit.

"What –" Lan Fan sputtered with confusion. Hamou had risen as well. He took her hands, not flinching at the cold metal of her automail, and spoke imploringly.

"This is all we can offer in return, but I beg for your generosity."

Baffled, she could only repeat dumbly. "My generosity?" Then she had not been poisoned, but bribed?

The old man nodded vigorously. "Please. The desert has been particularly harsh this season. Our crops are few, and what little cattle we own must be saved for breeding."

Lan Fan did not understand. Perhaps the priest wished to use the stone to transmute food for his people? An understandable, yet impossible, request – the stone belonged to Lord Ling. It must not be wasted, and certainly not for two baskets of food, no matter how delicious!

Still thrown by the turn of events, Lan Fan did not have time to reply. Hamou continued on, clasping her hands with the frail strength of a man who has worked hard for many years. "Doctor Pirro told me, when he helped pack up your belongings in the desert, how much meat lies in your party's possession."

She blinked. Meat?

"You are a skilled hunter. You can provide for your friends. But we are a modest, religious village, and our trade has weakened considerably. My people have not had meat in quite some time. As I said before, going without has made us all the more aware of our need for it. Will you not part with some portion of your rations, in exchange for what we offer?"

Lan Fan wanted to laugh with relief. This had not been an attempt at her life, but rather at her pocket! She looked at the wide variety of food before her with new perspective. So, she had been sampling the goods before buying them, had she?

Relief and compassion swelled in her heart. Outwardly however, she kept her face blank. "That decision is not mine to make, alone. I will confer with my traveling companions."

Hamou nodded. Lan Fan sensed his chi, so nervous before, resigned and defeated. She softened her features into an almost-but-not-quite-smile. "But I can assure you," she squeezed his fingers reassuringly. "That if we cannot spare any food, then I will go and hunt fresh meat for your village."

Eyes surprisingly misty, Hamou released Lan Fan's hands to raise his own to the ceiling. "Ishvala has truly blessed us with your arrival!" He laughed. "Surely your coming here was a godsend.

"Do you not agree, Talib? Did you not liken her arrival to that of a blazing seraph, descending from the almighty?" The young man on Lan Fan's right blushed, and she recognized him as the guard she had manhandled to first grant her entrance into the temple. His eyes flicked to where Lan Fan stood, before he nodded stiffly.

Again Hamou laughed. His happiness was so apparent, and so reminiscent of Master Ling's, that Lan Fan made the resolution to help them as much as she could. First things first though…

"If you'll excuse me," Lan Fan bowed courteously. "I will go and discuss the situation with M – with my friend – right now."

But Hamou would not let her leave unescorted and insisted on the two guards' accompanying her. Lan Fan resisted the urge to scoff at the needless gesture, hearing her grandfather's voice echo in her mind. _"Manners, Lan Fan,"_ he would always say. _"You are not a dog." _

Instead she bowed deeply again, waved off his offer of more food, and followed the two guards out of the temple.

Nasesh-Arem was not a large village – perhaps a fourth of the size of Rush Valley – and the journey to the center medical facility went quickly and in silence. The guard Talib, Lan Fan noticed, continued to glance down at her as they walked. It only took her a moment to realize that the Ishvalans would not be very familiar with the concept of automail, and hers was glinting in the afternoon sun.

Well. His curiosity was certainly none of her business, and her arm was no source of shame. Lan Fan lifted her chin and strode on purposefully, only blushing a little at the attention.

The rest of the village had already closed up, seeking to shelter during the hottest part of the day. Not a soul crossed their path before they reached the medical facility. It crouched low in the deepest dip of the valley, a modest dwelling surrounded by brightly verdant shrubs and bushes. The green color was like a balm on Lan Fan's eyes, having seen nothing else besides brown and golden sand for weeks.

Talib rushed forward to hold the door open for her, and again Lan Fan resisted the urge to snap. Instead she calmly turned her head and spoke without malice. "Thank you, but I am not an invalid. I can find my way from here." A shallow bow, and Lan Fan breezed through the doorway, ignoring the low whistle of the other guard behind her.

"Oh, well done Talib. Very impressive."

But Lan Fan did not hear him. Turning the first corner, she entered into a corridor that was fragrant with drying herbs and growing medicines. Noise carried down the hall – even if her feet had not instinctively known the way, Lan Fan would have had no problems finding Master Ling and Mei Chang's room.

" – must be allowed! I'm gonna collapse for sure. Where's that nice priest guy from this morning? He could understand me. Listen! If you could just find me, maybe a bowl or two…you know, make that five, just in case…."

Master Ling's voice drifted out of the room, and it was so familiar and comforting to hear his outrageous demands that Lan Fan had to take a moment to pause outside the doorframe. She allowed herself the briefest of smiles – overwhelmed, joyous, relieved – before regaining her composure.

"Lan Fan!" He sat reclined on a scratchy blue-and-green blanket. At her entrance, he beamed widely and gestured to the doctor in the corner. Lan Fan just knew, from the snatch of conversation she had overheard, that Master Ling had been trying his best to harass his doctor.

Fortunately the man looked decidedly un-harassed. Dr. Pirro was leaning over Mei Chang's blanket, minding the slumbering panda on her belly with caution. He balanced a flat bowl of scented water in one hand, laying a wet cloth across Mei's brow with the other. Ling was grinning.

"You know, Lan Fan, I don't think the good doctor here speaks the Merchant's Tongue very well. I've been telling him what I need all day, and he just isn't hearing me." Master Ling looked up to the ceiling with exaggerated delicacy. "I've been starving all day! Too bad I don't speak Ishvalan!"

Sometimes Lan Fan wished that her lord did not play the fool so well. _She _knew he was a just and capable leader, and _she _understood the necessity of presenting a guarded front, but honestly! It was embarrassing sometimes, to appear the dedicated vassal of a clown. It was even worse, when the amusement inspired by his silliness threatened to crack her veneer of stoicism. Master Ling always seemed to know whenever she was one step away from a smile, and his obvious pride with himself on those occasions never failed to make Lan Fan feel small and self-conscious.

There were more pressing matters now, however. Instead Lan Fan merely shook her head at the young prince's antics and crossed the room to where Mei Chang slept. After an evening of carefully-monitored rest and fresh water, the girl was looking much better already. Her breaths still rattled like a snake's tail, but her inhales were deeper, steadier.

"How is she doing?" Lan Fan asked.

"How should I know?" Ling replied, long-suffering. "Nobody has spoken to me all day!"

But Doctor Pirro answered from where he stood washing his hands in a basin. "She is dehydrated, and over-tired. But her illness has passed."

"Ah!" Ling pointed a finger accusingly, laughing. "You DO speak my language! I knew it!"

The doctor's red eyes were hard and sharp as slate as he glared at Ling. Lan Fan felt herself bristle instinctively at the hostility in the man's gaze, which evaporated into pleasant cordiality when he turned to address her once more. "Now that you are here to take watch, I will go to cultivate an expectorant. It should clear out her lungs quickly, and accelerate her healing process."

"Thank you very much."

"Hey hey," Ling waved at the large Ishvalan with a pawing hand. "Maybe you could pick up that food I asked for earlier while you're up? That should accelerate _my_ healing process!"

Doctor Pirro scoffed, inclined his head politely towards Lan Fan, and promptly left the room. The door slammed behind him. Xiao Mei snorted a sleepy protest.

"I hope you are not surprised at his attitude, sire," Lan Fan spoke in Xingese, should any Ishvalan happen to overhear her address Ling as royalty. "You did hold a sword to his throat."

Ling's face lost a great deal of his cheesy humor, but amusement still remained. "Did I now?" He answered back in their language, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I do vaguely remember something like that. Was that before or after you left me in the desert to die of starvation?"

Lan Fan did not rise to the bait. "After, my Lord." She did, however, walk to sit at his side. Performing a quick, perfunctory scan of the area, she slid a hand into her pocket. She allowed herself to savor a moment of suspense, drawing out her fist much more slowly than secrecy required. It was worth seeing the delight that spread across Ling's face, his eyes opening slightly in surprise, when she produced two small green apples.

"Fruit!" he whispered reverently, taking one from her open palm.

"They are both for you, my Lord," she insisted. "I have already eaten more than my fair share." Ling needed no further prompting, and he sat happily back against the wall before biting off half of the first apple.

"Thank you Lan Fan. We owe that doctor for taking care of us, for sure, but all he's brought me is sludgy gruel. I could swear he doesn't like me."

"Yes my Lord," she answered, almost smiling. "But it is more likely that he is simply wary. You did look quite frightening when we first arrived to save you."

"Did I?" he laughed. "I actually don't remember much of that."

Lan Fan nodded seriously. "I have not seen you defend anything so fiercely in years, not since Fei Yen attempted to take the last Tsang-Yue dumpling when we were twelve."

"Come now, Lan Fan," Ling was now chomping his way up the core of the apple. Juice sleuthed down the side of his mouth, rolling a wet path to his throat. Lan Fan remembered the taste of the fruit, tart and crisp, and hated herself for blushing. "In my defense, it _was_ the last dumpling, and I was hungry."

"That was Fei Yen's defense as well, I believe, my Lord. As I recall, it did not hold much weight with you at the time. You ate it anyway."

"I see. Are you implying that I'm a self-serving ruler, Lan Fan?"

"No, sire," Lan Fan answered, marveling at the giddy feeling bubbling up her throat. It made her light-headed, it made her bold. "Just a glutton." It made her _stupid_!

Ling blinked, surprised, and Lan Fan felt the warm bubbly sensation disappear. In its wake, ice snaked through her gut. Her mouth hung open with astonishment, and she wondered at the practicality of impaling herself on her own elbow-blade.

But Ling simply laughed, light and short – as if he could not help himself – and a look of delight surpassing his pleasure with the apples shone on his face.

Lan Fan despaired. Happiness was not the appropriate response! She had been disrespectful, insolent! She deserved retribution, not approval. She'd forgotten her place, teasing the prince like that, as if he was just a boy and she a normal girl. That was wrong.

Master Ling had royal blood in his veins. He would soon rule all of Xing, and save their clan. He was no mere boy. And she, Lan Fan, a low-born servant of the Honorable Yao family, was not a girl. She was a tool, a weapon, a bodyguard. A metal arm existed where once there had been flesh - she was not even whole enough to be considered a true woman.

She could _not afford_ to forget that!

"You've got it all wrong," Ling interrupted her thoughts. For a painful moment Lan Fan was frantic. _Can he read my thoughts? Please don't let him read my thoughts! _But then, "I'm greedy, remember?" He said playfully, "not gluttonous!"

Looking down at the other apple, stark green against the blue blanket on his lap, he remarked offhandedly: "That actually reminds me of a time, you know, that I did protect something more important than a dumpling. Once." He said it casually, as if observing an interesting cloud formation. "It was against Gluttony, the homunculus. You probably don't remember. It was while we battled Fuhrer King Bradley. You had fallen. Gluttony was going to eat you."

Ling's fingers curled tightly around the apple, completely obscuring it from view. Slanted as they were, his eyes were still serious and intense when he looked up at Lan Fan. "I cleaved his head in twain before he got anywhere near you."

The room was suddenly too small, Mei Chang too asleep, and Lan Fan's face too red to be healthy. She stammered, desperately remembering her_ place_, and resisting the urge to do something ridiculous like smile or cry or cover his hand with her own.

"It is a good thing that Fei Yen eventually yielded the dumpling to you, then," she turned her face away, grateful for the concealing length of her bangs. "It would not have ended well for her."

Ling laughed again, and Lan Fan did not smile. This was good. "Sire," she moved to bow lowly. "If the fruit is pleasing to my Lord, then I have an offer to relay from High Priest Hamou."

For a terrible moment, she worried that he was not going to allow for the change of subject. Her lord always did revel in making her as uncomfortable as possible.

Silence lingered poignantly in the air before Ling sighed. "I do remember him - from this morning. He was asking a lot of questions about how Mei was doing. He seemed nice enough. What does he want?"

"Apparently this village has limited resources, my Lord," she kept her head down. "They have maintained an impressive agricultural life, but are poor hunters. High Priest Hamou wishes to trade – produce for meat. I am willing to hunt for them, if it pleases my Lord."

Ling was silent for several moments. Lan Fan studied the frayed edges of his blanket. From the balcony, she could hear a camel lowing. Finally, Ling spoke.

"I don't like the idea of you out there again without us, Lan Fan."

"Yes my Lord."

"But they've been very kind to us. And you cannot say that I ordered you not to go. They cannot know who I am."

"Yes my Lord. I would not tell them you ordered me against it, should you not wish for me to go."

"But you want to do this for them."

Lan Fan did not hesitate. "I want what you want, my Lord."

"Oh, I truly doubt that, Lan Fan." He sighed again. "We do have one advantage, in the worst-case scenario. They don't know that I'm fully recovered. I could defend Mei if necessary. But best-case scenario, they are a peaceful community. And we should repay them."

"Yes my Lord."

"Take anything you need. I want you back by morning tomorrow, no matter what you've found."

"I will inform the High Priest, my Lord."

* * *

><p>Two hours later found Lan Fan standing again at the head of Nasesh. The Philosopher's Stone hung heavy around her neck again, her nape still warm where Master Ling had touched it as he had fastened the band.<p>

"_Come back soon," he had whispered, kneeling to tie the stone around her bowed neck. She did not look up. He did not look away. "And be safe, Lan Fan, okay?" _

Lan Fan studied the ground, listened to the air, and sensed the chi of several animals to the east. Turning, she steadied, and ran.


	6. Day Fifteen

**Author's Note**: Once more, I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to leave a review. Some of you have been hinting at wanting to see certain things (vagueness!), and perhaps a few of those things are soon in the making. *whistles*

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><p><strong>Day Fifteen<strong>

The sunrise in Nasesh-Arem lit the valley a golden-red, warmth bouncing off the clay buildings to heat the streets below. A humble community, Ling guessed that it held no more than ten to twenty small families. He would also guess that each and every member of those families had turned out to the temple this morning, anxious to greet Lan Fan upon her return from the desert.

News traveled quickly in the small village – children proudly showing off their knowledge as adults eagerly gossiped with the same. All of the prayer cushions in the gathering hall had been taken, the room positively packed with excited chattering Ishvalans. On all accounts, the subject remained the same; Ling reclined against a pillar in the back, feigning exhaustion, and listened to the prattle surrounding him with an amused ear.

"I heard that she is a warrior of extreme kindness – "

" – journeyed all the way from Amestris to – "

" – might even have found six rabbits – "

" – that she sacrificed a great deal of her own food – "

" – can you believe it? Six rabbits!"

" – quite a beauty, at that, didn't you say – "

" – but I don't know, a young girl in the desert for eight hours? It doesn't seem – "

" – Priest Hamou wants to offer her a permanent post – "

" – _six _rabbits_!"_

Ling grinned and popped another sliver of melon into his mouth. His stomach promptly gobbled it up, and then growled, as if to say "yes, thanks. That was nice. Anything else?"

His kingdom for real food! Not to say that Ling did not appreciate Ishvalan food - but he had eaten nothing but Pirro's mash and the occasional slice of fruit for the past two days!

He longed for fish, gently broiled or cooked over a Xingese bonfire. All this fruit was lovely, sure, but _meat_…Ling had only been without for a little while. If he had already begun to miss it, he couldn't imagine how the villagers must have been feeling. Considering it that way, he could understand their eagerness as they awaited Lan Fan's arrival.

If he were to be completely honest with himself – which he almost always was – Ling also knew that he understood another, less economical, reason the Ishvalans were looking forward to seeing Lan Fan again. Well, perhaps not the _entire_ village: just the men.

Despite his small eyes and carefree demeanor, Ling was neither blind nor stupid. A small village, with very few newcomers, must be very excited to have visitors. He had heard a few of the bolder women whisper to one another, throwing interested and not-so-subtle glances his way.

He had also heard, with less amusement, similar whispers coming from the men of Nasesh-Arem regarding his bodyguard. Apparently Lan Fan had created quite the stir, arriving in the middle of afternoon prayers, among the village's young bachelors.

Ling prided himself a (relatively) honest man – if not with others, then certainly with himself. He did not stumble hilariously as Edward Elric did around his feelings. For all his prodigious skills and maturity, Ed still could not even admit that his mechanic was an attractive woman without short-circuiting his brain. Ling found this extremely funny; it wasn't as if it _meant_ anything, thinking that a person was physically appealing. Perhaps Ed's embarrassment was an Amestrian thing.

But Ling was honest, and quite frankly did not see any harm in acknowledging the fact that Lan Fan was a remarkably beautiful girl, even by Xing's standards. Here in Nasesh-Arem, where pale skin and dark hair stood out as foreign and exotic, it did not surprise Ling that Lan Fan had attracted so much attention from the opposite sex.

That did not mean, however, that he had to enjoy hearing the hopeful speculations of the gaggle of young men, all kneeling eagerly around the center platform.

Suddenly, as if moved by a cue Ling could not see, a reverent hush fell immediately over the noisy crowd. Echoes of their conversations floated high in the ceilings of the temple, almost as if there were spirits whispering unseen among the rafters as Hamou stepped onto the platform.

"Nice touch," Ling thought absently. "Arched ceilings give dramatic effect. I'll remember that."

The High Priest turned in one large circle, taking in all of the attentive faces of his congregation, before smiling broadly and raising his arms. Ling recognized him as the old man who had first welcomed him to Nasesh-Arem. Scratching at his chin (and wincing at the stubble he found there), he made a mental note to track the elder down sometime later, to discuss the conditions of their departure. Ling was a target, especially now that he carried a Philopher's Stone. Staying in one place for too long was dangerous, no matter how harmless the people appeared. As soon as Mei showed signs of improvement, their group needed to carry on.

"Brothers and sisters!" Hamou grinned widely, opening his arms. "This day is a cause for much celebration! The almighty Ishvala has heard our voices crying out in the desert, and has sent His gifts to His children!

"Long has Ishvala, in His great wisdom, seen cause to test us, His people. Our flocks have suffered, our cattle grown slim, and trade with our brothers in the West has weakened.

"We have hungered, we have toiled, and we have prayed," the Ishvalans nodded their heads, some ruefully, while others smiled with hands clasped in supplication. "And Ishvala is a merciful and kind master. He has heard our prayers, and has listened as in the days of the Old Scrolls. When the lost people of Tobit cried out for shelter in the wilderness, did Ishvala leave them without aid?

"No! He sent to them the holy angel Ushriel, to lead them to make their homes in this blessed valley."

Hearing the man talk, Ling suddenly understood why that Ishvalan - Scar - had been so driven in his cause. If Nasesh-Arem served as any kind of example, the Ishvalans obviously took their religion very, _very_ seriously. If Scar had, for some psychotic reason, thought his god wanted all State Alchemists dead, then Scar was going to kill all of the State Alchemists. It was fascinating, really, the amount of devotion present in the room. Ling could feel the auras of the crowd swirling with steady and content pulses of adoration as the priest spoke.

"And when we, the humble descendants of those same people, cried out for an end to our fast, Ishvala granted us yet another great boon: one in the form of a humble outsider, a woman of kindness, generosity, and abounding self-sacrifice!" He spread his palms wide, and the villagers cheered happily.

"Oh now really," a tired voice spoke Xingese quietly into Ling's ear. "I almost wish I had not agreed to find food for them."

Ling smiled, not looking to where he knew Lan Fan knelt inconspicuously at his elbow. To look would be fruitless anyway – people simply did not see Lan Fan, if she did not wish to be seen. Mindful of her desire for discretion, Ling kept his gaze forward, reading her chi instead. There he found weariness, satisfaction, and no small amount of exasperation.

"You seem a bit distressed Lan Fan. Anything the matter?" He muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Of course not, sire. Only –" She sighed tiredly. "They are a very…gracious, people."

"And you dislike the attention."

"No. I do not dislike all attention, my Lord, only that which is unnecessary." She snorted softly, surprising Ling with the noise. Lan Fan rarely allowed herself the freedom to do things such as laugh, or _snort_. "And this attention is very unnecessary. It borders on ridiculous."

"Well, what did you expect?" Ling whispered beneath Hamou's loud, booming voice. "This is a small religious community. I doubt they get out much. And didn't you hear the priest? You're a _seraph_ now," he teased. "They'll probably write you into their scriptures, Miss Angel-of-Meat."

"You jest, young master," Lan Fan reprimanded lightly. She paused, considering something, before adding with diffidence: "it may amuse you to know that I _did_ overhear the High Priest speak to his acolytes about a canonization…"

Ling laughed under his breath, ignoring the strange looks from the nearby Ishvalans at the noise. As much as he disliked Lan Fan working herself so harshly, there was a silver lining. The more tired Lan Fan became, the more lax her hold on herself became as well. She did not often allow herself to express much humor. "Now _you're_ messing with _me_," he grumbled. "Can you imagine it? 'Lan Fan – Holy Saint of Dried Meat and Carrion'!"

"More accurately, the saint of dried meat, carrion, and the protector of Emperor Ling Yao – the god of...what did Mei Chang say? The god Bad Jokes and Empty Bellies."

He chuckled again. She must be truly tired indeed, Ling thought, if she had lost the energy to resist joking with him! Of course, it would be nicer if his friend _didn't_ have to be dead-on-her-feet in order to joke with him, but Ling would take whatever he could get.

"Speaking of empty bellies," he whispered. "Did you have a productive hunt?"

Suddenly and irrationally, Ling thought back to his childhood in his second aunt's house, and the evenings when his uncle would return from the fields exhausted and worn. Second aunt would smile and ask after his day, and Ling's uncle would respond in kind, a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder or knee.

Ling felt a bizarre reversal of roles, as if he were the one welcoming Lan Fan back from a hard day of work. Which, he told himself, was technically true and which, he told himself firmly, there was absolutely nothing wrong with. Kings were _supposed _to welcome home their vassals. It was polite.

Lan Fan did not respond, but he did hear a shifting of fabric before a sudden light warmth settled on his thigh. His heart stuttered, and Ling's eyes opened wide with surprise. With an imperceptible shake of his head, he took a moment to compose himself.

For a brief moment he had thought, crazily, that Lan Fan had _laid her hand upon him_ – but when he looked down he saw only a small bundle of cloth resting innocently above his knee. His heart thudded in his chest – with relief, he supposed.

"Very productive, sire." Lan Fan spoke, ignorant of Ling's sudden anxiety. "However, I must take my leave now. My presence was requested, and it appears the High Priest is drawing his speech to a close."

"His sermon, more like," Ling said, trying for levity while breathing deeply through his nose. His heart, it seemed, could handle facing hoards of soldiers and an army of homunculi with barely a flinch. Ridiculously, the mere thought of Lan Fan's hand on his knee unsettled it far more effectively.

But it did make a sort of sense, he supposed. Such a thing as a servant taking liberties with her lord would be outrageously against tradition. Curiously enough, Ling did not think that his heart beat so quickly at the thought out of _outrage_.

"As you say, young prince," Lan Fan whispered, and Ling felt her aura fade away as she made her exit.

With extreme nonchalance, not to mention curiosity, Ling picked up the package Lan Fan had left him. Skilled fingers made quick work of the tight knots. The final tie gave, and several small dark things rolled into his lap. Ling blinked, let out a quiet bark of laughter, and did his very best to not look surprised at the generous pile of fresh jerky suddenly before him. Even with the attention of an entire village upon her, Lan Fan had kept him in high priority. As Hamou delivered a brief introduction, Ling leaned his head back against the pillar, tossed a handful of (glorious!) meat into his mouth, and settled in to watch the show.

"But do not take my word for it alone, brothers and sisters!" The priest was saying. "Miss Lan Fan has indeed returned, with a bounty sure to last us many weeks! Let us hear her tale, from her own lips!"

The crowd clapped encouragingly, most noticeably from that area of eager teenaged boys. A brave soul even ventured to let out a whistle as Lan Fan walked up before the platform. Several more took up the cheer, and soon she stood quite awkwardly as the villagers called out their thanks. Poor Lan Fan, Ling thought with a grin. He would enjoy teasing her about this for months!

She must have only just gotten back to the village an hour or so ago, her gi covered with dirt and twigs and spatters of something brown which looked like mud but that Ling knew to be old blood. Her roughshod appearance did not dampen the people's admiration – not even the fierce stare of the Yang mask seemed to temper their enthusiasm.

Hamou raised a heavily-wrinkled hand, and the crowd fell silent. Amusement bubbled up in Ling's chest, knowing that, behind her mask, Lan Fan surely had turned redder than a tomato. He pitied the Ishvalans, and how they were in for quite a surprise if they expected a grand speech from his most taciturn of vassals.

"Miss Lan Fan," Hamou said kindly. "Please tell us of your hunt. Were you successful in your endeavors?" But before she could even respond, the old man leaned close and whispered something into her ear.

A brief moment passed as the two spoke quietly to each other, Lan Fan making a sharp protesting motion with her hands. _No, _her body language said. _I will not._ But Hamou continued to smile, wheedle, and beg, and eventually Lan Fan's shoulders drooped. Aura flaring briefly with irritation, she reached up to both remove her mask and pull back her hood.

Perhaps Hamou thought that his people should see the face of their "savior". Ling sniggered. The face revealed behind the mask hardly belonged to a rapturous angel. With her topknot frizzed and tousled and her cheeks flushed with sunburn and embarrassment, Lan Fan scowled out over the heads of the appreciative Ishvalans. He almost laughed aloud when he saw her expression – screwed and soured as if she'd been forced to eat something unpleasant. It was true; Lan Fan did not like to remove her mask.

"The hunt went well. I returned without harm." Lan Fan's voice was flat and direct, like a soldier's reading a report. "I killed two coons, a pronghorn, three slings of rabbits, and a half-dozen field mice. There is a small waterhole four miles east where fowl may be hunted in due time as well."

When she did not elaborate, Hamou quickly took up the dialogue. "And the meat is being cooked and preserved now, as we speak. It will be ready for distribution after our morning prayers. We owe you a great deal, Miss Lan Fan!"

In Ling's opinion, the High Priest's laid-back and cheerful grin seemed a bit too theatrical. But Lan Fan's stony face softened in response, and she murmured something quietly to the old man. He nodded, clapping a hand to her shoulder jauntily and rubbing his neck in a sheepish motion, before motioning for one of his guards.

"And now we will commence with our morning worship, as Miss Lan Fan gets some well-deserved rest. We will have another chance to thank her for her selflessness once she has had a chance to recover. Talib, please escort Miss Lan Fan to our meditation room. She can rest there, for the time being."

A tall, strong-armed guard with choppy hair and flushed cheeks stepped forward, bowing lowly and gesturing for Lan Fan to follow him. Glancing in Ling's direction, she hesitated only for a moment before complying. A few of the Ishvalans waved to her cheerfully as she passed, and Lan Fan nodded politely at their attentions before exiting into a small side room.

Ling nodded to himself as well, gathering up the rest of his food and rolling to his feet. As interesting as the religion of Ishvala may be, he felt more than a little awkward intruding on its worship. Not to mention the heavy push of so many fervently praying chis had begun to press on his nerves, as well.

There was also the issue of his having left Mei, for a short while, with only the panda as a guard. He needed to return to the hospital to check up on her, before leaving again to collect Lan Fan. Quietly, he backed out of the large front doors as unobtrusively as possible.

Once free of the crowded temple, Ling took a deep breath and savored the open desert air. The stifling feeling of so many heavy presences being lifted, all at once, was no small relief. He exhaled gustily and turned on his heel, promptly running into the spectacularly beautiful Ishvalan woman behind him.

"Wah!" He startled, hand flying back instinctively to grab at the sabre that – _wasn't? –_ strapped to his back. Clutching at nothing, Ling cursed, quickly covering his reach by sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ah ha ha…" he laughed awkwardly. "Wow. Sorry about that. I had no idea anybody was behind me. My bad."

The woman, for her part, appeared mortified. "Oh," she breathed huskily. "No. _I'm_ sorry! I shouldn't have – well – it's only that I saw you leave. I wanted to – to speak with you." She blushed becomingly, tucking a tendril of dark brown hair back behind an ear. Head ducked artfully, her black eyes peeked up at him from beneath thick lashes. "My name is Sera."

"Oh," Ling said, smartly. He floundered for a moment before settling down with his tried-and-true fall back. Stretching a smile across his face, he cheerfully replied, "Very nice to meet you, Miss Sera! I'm Ling."

Fidgeting, Sera lifted one shoulder in a delicate show of unease. "I hope it's not too forward," she tried for a winsome smile. "But I, that is, my sister and I, well – we've just made lunch, and I know that Dr. Pirro's food can be very unappetizing. You've been so helpful to our village, and my sister and I wanted to thank you. Will you join us for lunch? She's making geng."

Ling's mouth watered at the thought of a bowl of hot, authentic Xingese soup. How long had it been since he'd eaten geng? Before even Amestris! Still – "Thanks, but I should get back to my friend. She's still sick, so."

"Oh, the little girl with the panda!" Sera sidled closer. "She's so darling! I paid her a visit before worshipping this morning. Dr. Pirro turned me away though – she's meant to be sleeping. Perhaps you could bring her some lunch as well? I live very close by."

A hunch suddenly niggled into Ling's mind. Truly, he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep himself – at least until he could track down Hamou to negotiate their, hopefully, imminent departure. He had no time to sit down and eat... a homemade Xingese meal... with two young, pretty girls…

Ling shook his head.

"Lead the way!" he chirped, offering up his arm. Sera's eyes shone, and she promptly steered him towards the lower levels of the village.

Having now gotten over her initial anxiety over approaching Ling, Sera proved to be a very talkative girl indeed. "You're from Xing, aren't you? That's so amazing – I've never met anybody from Xing before. I know nothing about it. Perhaps you could tell me?" Her fingers were strong on his wrist as she led him through the zigs and zags of the streets.

In the short time it took to reach her small, white-walled home, Sera had quizzed Ling over a vast array of subjects: where had he lived, exactly, in Xing ("Next to a very pretty, well-shaded meadow."); what on earth had he been doing all the way in Amestris ("We wanted to visit the ruins, and decided to go all the way to Amestris! It wasn't so far, why not?"); and the nature of his relationship with Lan Fan and Mei.

This topic seemed of particular interest. As they entered the small, but remarkably neat, cubicle of a home, Sera urged Ling to take a seat at a rickety wooden table. "So tell me more about this Mei girl," she prodded as he crossed his feet beneath him. "She is quite younger than you? An old friend, perhaps? Oh – Relena! We're home; he came!" she called happily.

"Oh good," a voice sighed very close by. Ling startled again, turning to see another woman kneeling by a battered and gently-steaming pot. "I don't know what we would have done with so much geng, without an extra mouth to help eat it all!" Brushing off her robes, she stood and turned to offer Ling her hand. "Thank you so much for helping our village. It's wonderful to meet you. My name is Relena."

Both sisters truly were strikingly pretty, slender and toned, with sharp dark eyes and carefully pinned-up brown hair. Ling sat, accepting a piping-hot bowl of soup with a wooden smile.

"I really didn't do much," he shrugged. "Poor Lan Fan did all the work, and I get all the food! Not that I'm complaining." Relena sat beside him, Sera across, and for a brief moment the room was silent. "I'll wait for you to get your food before I start!"

"Such chivalry!" Relena laughed, but she obligingly doled out a serving for herself and Sera. They both sat, hands folded into their sleeves, and waited for Ling to take the first bite.

The stew smelled fragrant, exactly how Ling like it, riddled with vegetables and the smallest bits of precious meat. Another hunch niggled at his brain, and this time he listened. Without a second thought, he lidded the bowl.

"I appreciate your kindness, but I just can't eat without knowing that my friend is doing alright. Maybe I could bring some to her, and then come back for a longer visit?"

The sisters both smiled. "Of course," Relena bowed her head. "But won't you take some tea first?"

"No, I couldn't…"

"I insist!" Sera pleaded, fisting her fingers into Ling's sleeve. "Please, at least let us give you cup of tea before you go! Our village is hardly doing anything for you three, and with two of you sick at that. It's against the ways of Ishvala!"

Ling hated to disappoint, especially in the likely case that his hunch was completely off the mark. Still, he had been raised to be careful. Sighing resignedly he hunkered back down to the table – and spoke a casual sentence of Xingese.

"Of course," Sera responded automatically, reaching for the pot of honey Ling had requested in his own language.

The room stilled.

"_Idiot_!" Relena groaned, slapping her forehead into her palm. Ling did not even see her fingers move as she plucked a needle from her hair, instinct moving him out of his chair before the senbon could imbed itself in his eye.

In a flash Sera had reached up and grabbed his collar, twisting him back down to the table. The weak boards cracked under his weight, and Ling crashed to the ground painfully. She jammed her forearm down across his throat, pinning him in place as Relena drew a kunai from her sleeves.

"You really should have just taken the tea, or the soup. It would have only stunned you. Now we have to kill you." She spoke casually, reaching among the remains of the table to press the tip of the blade against the hollow behind Ling's ear.

Sera had less composure. Disdain dripped from every pretty feature as she snarled in Ling's face. "How did you know we were of Xing?"

Spilled geng dripped from the pot onto the floor; Ling could feel it seeping into the back of his shirt. "I thought it was odd how two girls knew how to perfectly cook a Xingese dish, when they'd supposedly never been to the country before." He answered.

Thankfully his voice did not betray his anger, even as Ling cursed himself every shade to the sun. How could he have forgotten the risk to himself as heir? Of _course_ assassins were after him! Of _course_ they would have connections with an Ishvalan community so close to the border! "Not to mention you both managed to sneak up on me twice. You've been trained in the Dragon's Pulse. You know how to suppress your presences – I still can't get a read on your auras."

"A rookie mistake, then," Sera growled, pressing her arm deeper against his windpipe. "I won't make it again."

"But really," Ling rasped. "What first tipped me off was what you said about Mei." He smiled. "Nobody who's met that girl when she's sick would call her 'darling'."

Narrowing her eyes, Sera spat in his face. "Despicable. Truly, you have no honor. Not that I expected much from a cheap bodyguard like you."

Ling coughed in both pain and confusion. Bodyguard?

"Now now, Sera," Relena chastised, tracing the sharp point of her knife almost teasingly across Ling's neck. "That's a disgrace to guards everywhere. These two aren't even worthy of the name. Who leaves their sick mistress completely unattended, and in a strange village no less?"

His vision blurred, and Sera laughed. "Do you think brother has finished with the other guard yet?"

"Definitely," her sister replied. Ling could see her face twist with mock concern. "Poor Miss Lan Fan was tired from her journey, and all too trusting. I'm sure brother made quick work of her. But what do you expect from some cheap help hired by the mongrels of the Chang family?"

With a jolt completely unrelated to the pain of a blade slipping beneath the thin skin of his clavicle, Ling remembered with horror that he was not the only heir to the throne of Xing in Nasesh-Arem, and Mei had in fact been left absolutely alone.

"Long live the Shitong," Relena hissed viciously.

Her blade pressed swiftly down – a spray of blood bubbled out from Sera's mouth – and the room erupted in an explosion of noise and fire.

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><p>Elsewhere in the village, the Ishvalan doctors in the medical center dealt with another, not-unrelated, crisis. While Dr. Pirro's assistant had been training with the stern doctor for many years, and had been witness to more than his fair share of gruesome sights, the young boy had still fainted dead away when he'd entered the room holding Mei Chang - finding the walls speckled red and brown, and a lifeless body hanging limp over a futon.<p> 


	7. Day Fifteen, Lan Fan's Story

**Author's Note: **Well! I definitely should have mentioned in the last chapter that, seeing as how I'm taking 21 hours this semester, I would not have much time to write for leisure. What little personal writing I can do is scribbled in notes between classes - so until December, updates will be few and far between. Still, I'm beyond grateful that so many of you continued to read and leave feedback for this story; rest assured it's not been forgotten!

A great deal of people were clued into the assassin's identity by their hair. I did remember a few scenes with Ishvalans having brown hair, but when I looked to confirm I saw that those scenes came from the first Fullmetal Alchemist series. Much less accurate; my mistake! Let's just pretend that some Ishvalans have brown hair, kay? ;)

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><p><strong>Day Fifteen<strong>

Around the time Ling – suspicious of the chi-less and lovely Ishvalan woman – agreed to take some soup, Lan Fan remained in the temple, dealing with her own problems.

"If you would just follow me this way, Miss Lan Fan…" The guard, Talib, she remembered, led her through a secluded hall near the back of the temple. Despite the early hour, the place remained cast in shades of black and gray, the windowless walls lit by the occasional mounted torch. Firelight glinted off the metal fingers of her left arm as they went, swiftly, turning first one corner and then another.

Lan Fan was not happy. Talib walked quickly, smooth, and steady – but unease rolled off of him in waves. Despite his even breathing and relaxed shoulders, his hands trembled beneath his long robes. She could see beads of sweat trickle and drop, one by one, down the dark brown skin of his neck. They left black tracks which glistened in the low light, confusing Lan Fan greatly.

Talib's nerves were baffling, but also none of her business. She did remember him having spent quite a while yesterday afternoon staring at her automail arm. Perhaps he considered its artificiality an offense to his god.

Or perhaps he remembered how she had almost strangled him in her haste to receive aid for Master Ling and Mei Chang, that first morning she had arrived in Nasesh-Arem.

Either scenario justified his unease, but that did not mean Lan Fan had to like it. Such extreme distaste filled the air that it soured her already-aching stomach. Her very-tired opinion: the sooner they reached this resting area, the better.

Rounding another bend – the third right after a series of inter-changing rights and lefts, she made sure to note – Lan Fan caught sight of two doors at the end of the corridor: one large and ornate and obviously her intended quarters, the other too small to serve as anything more than a broom closet.

With her privacy in sight, Lan Fan eagerly pushed forward – but Talib only slowed his pace, anxiety clouding around him like a stale funk. Exasperated, Lan Fan shouldered her way around him. "Thank you. I have it from here," she muttered, reaching for the door handle.

Abruptly he snatched her hood and pulled back, snapping her collar up to cut into her throat. Shocked and choking, Lan Fan grabbed at the fabric, wresting her fingers between it and the soft flesh of her neck. Using it as leverage, she leaned forward almost parallel to the ground and kicked back as high as she could.

Something crunched beneath her heel, and she heard an "oomph," before a large hand clapped around her mouth. Talib's considerable size and strength effortlessly lifted Lan Fan clear off the ground.

Furious, she twisted in an attempt to angle her metal arm and expose the sharp blade of its elbow. But Talib followed the movement, catching her momentum and adding it to his throw. Lan Fan heard the creak of an opening door, and then experienced a disorienting weightlessness as Talib heaved her through the air.

Buckets and bottles broke and shattered on the ground as she crashed into the small broom closet. Dazed, she quickly sprang to her feet, kunai drawn, to face Talib as he wrenched the door shut behind them. Blood ran down his nose. Broken, she thought viciously. Good.

"That was quite a kick," he whispered and – ridiculously – grinned. Palms out, he raised his hands in supplication. "Don't worry. I won't hurt you."

Lan Fan slammed his face against the hard wood of the door before he could blink.

"No. You won't," she hissed, locking his elbows and wrists behind him. "I will make sure of it. What you _will_ do, however, is tell me who you are, and what exactly you think that you are doing."

"Y-you," he grunted. "You really are strong. A great bodyguard."

Her stomach turned to ice. "_What?"_ He knew of her oath to Master Ling? Flipping a knife in her left hand, she brought up a knee to hold him still and pressed the blade just below his arm pit. One easy slide and she could pierce his heart.

"I know you're a bodyguard, but – don't! – I'm trying to help you!"

"Explain."

"I cannot breathe!"

Lan Fan increased the pressure of her hold. "Explain quickly then," she suggested venomously.

He complied. "Yesterday, after you left, I went to take some fresh food to your traveling companion. Outside the hospital I noticed one of the newer guards talking to his sisters. He'd been asking about you a lot, and so, I was curious why – but then I overheard him mentioning taking out the heir of Xing – _ow!_"

Fisting her fingers into the hairs of his nape, Lan Fan pulled. "Talk faster," she ordered coldly. Inwardly, she reeled. Somebody knew Master Ling's identity? But their clan had been so _careful_ about keeping his departure from Xing a secret! She had to get to him –

"The guard's name is Uzon. He and his sisters Sera and Relena arrived here about a year ago with another man named Li. Ever since you arrived, they started asking questions about you, strange questions. Then I heard Uzon telling his sisters 'yes, she's the Chang heiress, I'm sure of it. Those other two must be guards hired by the family.'"

Simultaneous relief – Master Ling was not the target! – and dread – Mei Chang was sick and unguarded! – loosened her grip on Talib's hair. Pushing away, she forced him to face her. "Mei Chang?"

Talib nodded, rubbing at his nape and wincing. "I heard…they're assassins, I think. I heard Uzon talk about helping Li capture the princess, and then getting you out of the way once you'd returned."

"And what of Master Ling?" she demanded. His eyes widened.

"Master…?"

"My other companion!" Lan Fan barked. Talib cupped a hand around his nose to stop the trickle of blood, and met her eyes.

"The sisters were to dispatch of him. Uzon would kill you." Ridiculously, his cheeks grew red. "When I heard, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't just let – not when you're so – "

"Tell me where the sisters live," Lan Fan growled, pulling her mask and hood into place. Talib appeared alarmed.

"But Uzon is looking to kill you somewhere! You can't just -" Impatient, Lan Fan held her sword to his throat. "Second street to the right of the temple. The white house. But you can't – "

She was out the door and down the hall before he could finish.

"Wow," he breathed. For a moment he stood, head throbbing, side slightly punctured, and joints aching. But he was a guard too, of sorts, and he wasted no more time before bolting out to find Master Hamou.

With most of the village gathered for morning prayers in the temple, Lan Fan easily picked up on the nearest auras in the street. Years of familiarity and affection recognized its signature; she tore in Ling's direction faster than a bat out of hell, bombs in hand as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop.

"_You failed the Young Master again, Lan Fan?"_ a voice, heart-achingly similar to her grandfather's, whispered through her mind. A shingle broke beneath her foot, and she stumbled. Her muscles ached from a night spent hunting in the desert without rest, but she willed them to push her even faster. _"How could you have failed, again?" _Her lungs screamed. Was she not breathing?_ "Why did you let him leave your sight?"_ He had been fine at the temple – how long could he have been in danger since then?_ "You must always place the Young Lord's needs above your own."_

Heart so full she thought it might burst, Lan Fan clattered to a halt before she could bound to the next roof. Master Ling's aura was the strongest here.

And there, exactly down and across the street from the shambled roof upon which she crouched, was a white house. Traditionally Ishvalan in style, the door opened widely, giving her a perfect view of the goings-on inside. She registered the situation in one glance.

Disarray: broken dishes and spilled food scattering the ground, Master Ling sprawled atop a pile of cracked and splintered wood. Two women: one crouched low, pinning him down, and the other knelt over his head. That one had a knife in her hand, and its blade rested against the hollow of Master Ling's collarbone.

If Lan Fan made any sudden movements, did anything at all to alarm these women, that blade could slide effortlessly through the delicate skin covering Ling's jugular. Quickly, she smothered her chi; if the assassins were of Xing, then it was highly likely they had trained in the Dragon's Pulse.

But then how could she alert Master Ling to her presence? If Lan Fan acted, the woman would slit his throat. If Lan Fan hesitated, the woman would probably just slit his throat anyway.

She forced herself to relax, remembering their training. Grandfather had drilled them countless times in their youths – even in hostage situations.

"_If acting endangers the Master, Lan Fan, then you must not act," Fu held a short sword against a nine year-old Ling's throat, another blade pointing across the room at Lan Fan. "Trust the Young Lord's training and wait for the opportunity to strike when the enemy is distracted." _

_Ling sighed exasperatedly. "Well then what am _I_ supposed to do Fu? Why can't _I _trust _Lan Fan's _training to get me out of it?" _

"_You have hands," Fu scolded, pressing the blade closer to the small boy's throat. "And a brain. Use them to distract your enemy." _

It had taken fifteen minutes, but Ling had eventually drawn Fu's attention away from Lan Fan long enough for her to dispatch a blade of her own. Hopefully Master Ling did not resort to the same methods now as he had done then. She doubted the sisters would respond well to tickling.

Resigned, the muscles in her legs itching to move and protect her liege, Lan Fan withdrew several more weapons from her arsenal. Wires from her sleeves, needles in her hair, flash bombs ready in her hands – she would wait.

A sudden swell of Master Ling's chi: a signal to grab her attention! Ignoring the brief warmth in her cheeks – so he trusted that she was there, even without knowing for sure, even against the odds – Lan Fan crept closer to the edge. He was going to act. She must be ready to intervene quickly.

She looked down to see what weapon her Young Lord had found, and saw him holding a small, depressingly-unthreatening, spoon.

Lan Fan repressed a sigh. Better than nothing, she supposed. He released his chi in another sharp burst, his hand so tight around the handle his fingers showed white. Any moment now… Her keen ears picked up the knife-wielding woman's hissed words: _"Long live the Shitong!"_

And Master Ling rammed the end of the spoon into the soft flesh between the woman's ribs. She spasmed, coughed blood. The blade slipped on his neck.

Lan Fan _flew_ down to the street, clenched her eyes shut, and flung her flash grenade into the house. It exploded a split-second before Lan-Fan herself erupted through the door, heat buffeting her face, the air filling with light and sulfur. She opened her eyes to see knife-woman reeling in surprise. The motion jolted the blade on Master Ling's neck. It broke skin; Lan Fan's mind turned to stone.

_Thud. Thud thud. _Her first kunai buried itself in knife-woman's shoulder, the second ripping a gash through her side. Reacting instinctively, knife-woman raised her arm just in time to shield her face – the kunai sunk hilt-deep into her forearm instead. Stunned and blind, she stumbled backwards. "Sera!" she called out for help.

Even though he had anticipated it, the hot rush of whiteness had completely bleached the room and burned Ling's eyes. In its wake, darkness had filled his vision. Immediately his other senses had compensated for the loss of sight; he tasted iron from where Sera had coughed blood onto his chest, mingling with the smells of smoke, oil, and spark powder.

Relena and Sera cursed. Movement rippled the air as they leapt backwards blindly, followed by a clanking of metal, delicate as wind chimes: Lan Fan's kunai.

"Sera!' he heard Relena shout behind him. Lan Fan's flash bomb would only stun the two assassins, and they were of Xing. They did not need to see Ling, to know his location. He wasted no time, rolling off the heap of broken wood to his feet.

"Lan Fan!" he called, flinging his hand out to the side. The blade of a short sword cut through the air. _Whirwhirwhirthunk!_ Ling caught it by the hilt and grinned. "Thanks. This'll work much better than a soup spoon, don't you think?"

She did not respond, but Ling heard the snap of bones and Relena swearing. Focusing, he followed the faint smell of blood to his left. His vision had started to return, showing a blurred form crouching by the wall. Ling swiped, missed, and kicked out, feeling his foot connect with a cheekbone.

"Ass!" Sera swore, spitting the curse and a volley of needles towards his face. He dropped to a crouch, put his weight back on his hands – his wrist twinged, sprained, yet easily ignored – and kicked out to lock his feet around her knees. Sera fell, reaching into her sleeves. Ling caught sight of a small, round, and dark egg in her hands and promptly turned; the happou-egg shattered at the base of his skull, releasing a cloud of ground glass that, had he been a second slower, would have torn into his eyes.

They were good. He and Lan Fan were better. A loud boom rattled dust and debris from the rafters were Relena fought to keep Lan Fan at bay. "Leave something of her left, Lan Fan!" he called out, turning. His vision had grown much clearer, but still he did not see Sera's fist until it had slammed hard into his gut. He grunted, feeling sharp pricks of pain where the spikes of a nekote protruded from her knuckles.

She grinned victoriously, and Ling scoffed; he had felt worse. He grabbed her fist and yanked it up and to the right, locking the joint, and Sera's smile turned to a grimace. She leaned back to put distance between them, her eyes red-rimmed, watery, and absolutely furious. Blood oozed sluggishly from the puncture in her side.

"Relena?" she asked desperately, swinging her knee up towards Ling's neck. He caught it and twisted. It snapped, and she fell to the ground with a pained snarl.

"Normally I'd have a good friend of mine transmute a very strong cable," he informed her casually, leaning into the hold. "But you aren't nearly as strong as the homunculus, so this will do. You aren't going anywhere."

A cry, and Ling looked up just in time to see Lan Fan slide her elbow-blade out from between Relena's ribs. The assassin slumped down, and Ling felt a twinge that was less like pity and more like sympathy. Knife wounds littered Relena's torso, the right side burned red, and her left arm hung at an unnatural angle – she had never stood a chance against Lan Fan. Ling watched his bodyguard catch the body as it fell, lowering it to the ground respectfully. She turned to face him, blood dripping from her automail, expressionless mask smeared black and red.

"Well done, Lan Fan," he said solemnly. She covered the distance between them, kneeling down by his side. Sera looked up, saw the blank Yang mask, and turned white with rage.

"We underestimated your skill. You've killed Uzon. You've killed Relena. And now you will kill me."

"I did not kill a man today," Lan Fan responded flatly. "Nor will you die – yet. Talk."

The assassin turned her head to the side, and said nothing.

Ling tightened his hold, feeling the bones of her wrist bend under the pressure. "That's okay," he said. "Why don't we trade – we'll tell you what we know, and you'll tell us what you know. I'll start:

"The Xing Empire is pretty vast; there are all sorts of different levels of wealth. Your companion happened to mention that you are from the Shitong clan. Not a very well-off family. In fact, I'd be hard-pressed to find a worse. Now, Lan Fan and I, we're pretty lucky. The Yao family happens to be one of the richer clans."

Sera's head snapped up. "The Yao - ?"

Ling held up a finger. "Now now, I'm not finished," he smiled. "Where was I?" he asked Lan Fan.

"Demoralizing, sire," she replied.

"Ah yes. The Shitong – it's taken quite a while for the Shitong wife to have a daughter, hasn't it? Little Sister Peizhi Shitong, as I recall, is only three months old. Add that to your destitution, and it makes sense that the family is a bit desperate to take out the rest of the competition. But then, so are most of us, so I won't begrudge you that.

"Now here's where I start guessing. The Chang family is only a few rungs higher than the Shitong. Better class, I have to say, and better warriors – not so good at keeping secrets. I'm thinking that your clan got wind of Mei Chang's plan to journey to Amestris. But why follow her all the way there? Better to wait, just along the borders of the desert, to ambush her once she returned.

"You must have felt lucky, that when she did cross your path, she was bed-ridden and weak." His eyes hardened. "How many of your men did you send after a sick twelve-year old girl?"

"Two, my lord," Lan Fan answered in Sera's stead. "Two men named Uzon and Li were to dispatch Mei Chang, before going on to deal with me."

Sera looked first to Lan Fan, and then back up at Ling. "You are Ling Yao," she breathed. "The Twelfth son."

"I'd like to say it's a pleasure to meet you…but you did just try to kill me."

"Our sources told us that the Yao heir was studying in the palace!"

Ling nodded. "Yeah, that sounds about right." He looked over his shoulder. "How long ago did we start that rumor, Lan Fan?"

"Over three years, sir. You will have gained quite the scholastic reputation by now."

Mouth gaping, Sera shook her head. "Ling Yao is only sixteen years old! He is anemic and weak! You are a full-grown man!"

Sighing, he looked up at the ceiling. "Oh come on, I know I'm not the only tall person in Xing! And I got over that weakness years ago. I'm not interested in the lies spread by my family – what I want is you to tell me where your clansmen are taking my little sister."

"Why would you be traveling with – protecting! – the Chang heiress if you are not her guards?"

"Sire," Lan Fan interrupted. "She is stalling. We must see to Mei Chang's situation."

"You won't have much luck," Sera said, smirking. A trickle of blood escaped from the corner of her mouth. "Uzon and Li will have taken her by now. She won't have been much of a challenge, especially against two members of the Shitong. She will –"

Ling struck her neck with the flat of his hand. "Oh I don't know. We beat two of you easily enough," he commented airily as she slumped down, unconscious. "Lan Fan, bring the geng."

"Sire?"

"It's a sedative. Just bring whatever's left in the pot – she won't stay out for very long." He stood, slinging Sera over his shoulder with a grunt. "Now let's go."

"She will not thank you for having spared her life," Lan Fan noted as the two of them took to the rooftops. The morning sun had heated the tiles considerably; Ling could feel their heat seeping through his thin shoes. "You could have just as easily ordered her killed."

Ling heard the detachment in her voice, and rolled his eyes. "Yes well," he said lightly. "I've just about had it with servants thinking that they're useless after one tiny defeat. It's just ridiculous."

"…oh."

Together they shot towards the medical center. Morning worship had evidently concluded, releasing a gradual trickling of Ishvalans throughout the streets. Ling increased their altitude, and motioned Lan Fan to do the same. Grateful to Lan Fan the Ishvalans may be, Ling still did not think they would appreciate the sight of Sera, slumped and beaten over his shoulder. They stayed out of sight on the higher levels, quickly coming upon the clinic.

His heart jumped; a small crowd had gathered about the small entrance, curiosity and fear stagnant in the air around them. He and Lan Fan had no time for reassurances. Speedily, and without preamble, they darted around the many bodies and through the entrance before any Ishvalan could notice.

In the short distance between the entrance and Mei's quarters, Ling had imagined the worst. Still he stumbled with shock at the doorway of his and Mei's room. The previously immaculate and comfortable space lay in a chaotic mess – linens and throwing needles littered the floor, the walls spattered with browns and reds. In one corner, Doctor Pirro lay slumped against the cabinets; in the other, a trembling Ishavalan boy was covering a body with a sheet.

Doctor Pirro snorted. "They didn't manage to kill you, then. How unfortunate; you were annoying." His head lolled awkwardly, and he spoke with a heavy lisp. To Lan Fan, he said, "I am glad you are unharmed, miss."

"Mei?" Ling demanded, crossing the room quickly to where the young boy knelt. He dumped Sera unceremoniously on the palate next to him, and Lan Fan quickly set to securing down the assassin.

"No," Pirro said as Ling rolled back the sheet. Scattered black braids were thankfully absent, and Ling looked at the severely bruised face of a strong old man. "That's Uzon – he's been a volunteer medic for the past year."

Ling exhaled heavily, rocking back on his heels. It wasn't Mei…

Lan Fan did not hesitate. She strode over to where Pirro lay, and knelt by his side. "What happened here? Please be quick." But before he could say anything, the door creaked, and the young boy let out an astonished cry.

"High Priest Hamou!" He exclaimed, bowing deeply. "Please, this place is not fit to receive you."

"Ishvala sends his servant where He wills, Navem." Hamou waved a hand, panting. The old man leaned lightly on an accompanying guard, who looked around the room before gasping. Immediately, he abandoned Hamou's arm and crossed the room to where Lan Fan sat. To Ling's surprise, the man promptly knelt and placed a hand on Lan Fan's shoulder.

"You're alive!" Talib breathed.

Lan Fan nodded. "Yes."

"I worried my soul to threads over your safety, all for nothing it seems." Ling did not think much of how the young man's eyes shone. It looked vapid, he thought, especially through the heavy bruising purpling the man's nose. "I brought Master Hamou as quickly as I could."

"And without much explanation, I might add," Hamou interjected, taking in the state of the room with shock. "Is this what you meant by an emergency, Talib? Pirro, what has happened here? You are not moving – are you injured?"

The doctor attempted to sit, but only slid further down the cabinets. He scowled. "I am well, your Grace. I believe Uzon simply drugged my tea."

Ling looked down and saw the spilt liquid, green and foaming, at Pirro's feet. "Yep, that sounds about right," Ling nodded. "They tried to pull that on me, too. Can't believe you fell for it."

Lan Fan repressed a sigh, and Pirro glared before snipping: "Uzon has been a member of our community for over a year now. I do not usually anticipate my Brothers in Ishvala to paralyze me."

Talib tore his eyes from Lan Fan's profile, looking back towards Hamou. "As I reported, your Grace. Uzon is not truly a devout Ishvalan, nor is Li. I discovered it just this morning."

"As did I," Pirro slurred dryly. "Upon taking my tea, I discovered that I could no longer move. I could do nothing, only watch, as first Li and then Uzon entered the room and attacked the young Xing girl."

"What happened?" Lan Fan demanded. Ling saw her hands twitch towards her knives.

Pirro's head lolled to stare at the tattered remains of Mei's futon. "They shouted many things – some in your language, and some in the Merchant's Tongue. I could not understand it all. It was more than clear, however, that they meant to capture your friend.

"I believe they anticipated an easier time with it, however. That young girl is quite a fighter, and the panda as well." Pirro sounded mystified. "They managed to severely injure Li before he took off with her. Uzon did not survive the encounter."

Hamou knelt to pray over Uzon's body and caught sight of Sera. Dismayed, he cried, "Is this Sera, as well? What has happened?"

"She and her sister attacked Lord Ling," Lan Fan replied tersely. "We responded in kind."

"And Relena too…" Hamou shook his head, looking truly mournful. "Miss Lan Fan, you have been so kind to our village, only to be treated to the worst kind of treachery. Believe me when I say that the true followers of Ishvala in this village knew no part in this."

"You are too hard on yourself, High Priest." Pirro insisted, his speech improving as the sedative wore off. "I do not believe our guests have been completely honest with us, either. Miss Mei Chang is apparently heiress to the Xing Empire."

"Heiress!"

"And we are her guards," Lan Fan insisted, looking sternly at Talib. "We must leave immediately to find her. Every moment wasted is one where this Li could take her life."

"No," Pirro shook his head, raising one hand experimentally. It wavered before dropping back down to his lap. "Uzon and Li mentioned something about immortality – and keeping her until they found the secret." His voice hardened. "I don't know what kind of heathen magic your heiress has practiced, to gain such a thing, but I do know that those assassins meant to take her back to the Shitong lands. Alive."

"Immortality!" Hamou looked overwhelmed, and Ling shrugged.

"I understand that this is a lot of information to take in at once, but it's a very long story, and we really don't have the time. Mei's in trouble, and this Li has a head start on us."

Talib rose from where he knelt by Lan Fan and turned, looking imploringly at Hamou. "Perhaps," the guard said, his hand still resting on Lan Fan's shoulder. "We can make amends on that front."

Half an hour later, Ling stood with Lan Fan and Talib in the back of the temple, trying very hard not to glare. Hamou was busy shifting through stacks of old documents, and Talib spoke to Lan Fan in a low - and irritating - voice.

Ling knew he should feel grateful. By all accounts, he owed Talib his life; not only had he looked out for Lan Fan and attempted to hide her from Uzon, but he had warned her of Ling's attackers as well. Not to mention he had gone directly to Hamou, interrupting a worship ceremony to try and help Mei. Then, on top of everything else, the young guard had suggested that they, two foreign Xingians, be allowed access to sacred information regarding the surrounding area. Still, when Hamou returned with a tattered old piece of parchment, Ling made certain to stand between the young guard and Lan Fan.

The brittle page cracked lightly as Talib unrolled it. "Here is Nasesh-Arem," his finger left a print in the dust on the map. "And here is Xing. Your assassin would have taken the most direct route to Xing from here, which is this pass."

Hamou interrupted: "what Li will not have known, something which is known only to those who guard our valley, is that there is another route. Because you have served our village, and because you have come to such danger while under our roofs, we will share this knowledge with you." Hamou grabbed Ling's forearm. "You must keep it a secret – for the path leads through a sacred holy site of our people."

"Its name is Malecktrot – or Angel's Pass," Talib said, looking up and smiling at Lan Fan. Ling's eyebrow twitched. "It is fitting, then, that you should learn of it."

"What way do we take?" Lan Fan asked, and Talib traced a path in the dust, curving up and around the valley.

"If you cut through the mountains here," he said, cutting a finger across a jagged rock formation. "You will intersect the path of the assassin before he reaches the end of the desert. Malecktrot is not an easy way, but this map will show you how to get through."

Lan Fan nodded, straightening up and carefully rolling the dry parchment. "We will guard this secret with our lives, and return it back to you safely."

Straightening as well, Hamou reached for her hand. "If you protect this map half as passionately as you do your heiress, then I am confident in your word. Talib," he said, still smiling at Lan Fan. "Escort Miss Lan Fan and her companion to Malecktrot's head." Hamou squeezed her hand earnestly. "You are truly a gift from Ishvala, Miss Lan Fan. Our village will forever be open to you. I wish you luck."

Lan Fan blushed, almost smiling, and covered Hamou's hand with her own. "Thank you," she said seriously. "Now, we must go."

"Yes," Talib said, gesturing both Ling and Lan Fan out the door. "Li will be laden with your companion, but he still has a considerable start on you. Follow me." The three of them climbed, a steep trail winding around the face of Arem, and as they went Talib warned them. "You will need to be wary, for there are many wild beasts in those mountains. There is a place for water six hours into the trail. You must not drink from the first pool, for it is toxic. The second is clean."

Ling nodded. "Sure," he said flatly. He did not know why, but something about Talib truly bothered him; the man was just too…earnest. Still, Ling _did_ owe him his life. "Thanks."

"You are welcome," Talib replied as they reached the end of the path. It veered sharply to the west. "That is the way Li would have taken." He pointed to their right, directly at a jagged rock face. "That is the beginning of Malecktrot. I trust the two of you are nimble, for it is a difficult climb."

"We'll manage."

"I…" Talib stuttered, and a deep blush showed through his bruising. Stepping forward, he took hold Lan Fan's automail hand. "I would go with you," he confessed, "to see you safe, but you have already proven yourself a brilliant warrior. I will aspire to your level, then, in my own training."

Lan Fan looked shocked, staring down at their intertwined hands with awe. "You are very strong already," she said. "But that is wise."

"Will you promise me that you will return?"

And to Ling's complete surprise, Lan Fan smiled joyfully. He felt his stomach turn to lead as she looked up, still smiling, and nodded. "Yes, of course."

"Yeah, sure," Ling said loudly. "You got it – we'll come back. You guys take care of our camels while we're gone, and keep that Sera girl under control. Alright? Good. Lan Fan, let's go."

"Yes my lord."

* * *

><p>Talib's shouts of blessings echoed with them for some time, as they scaled the face of the mountain. "He's a nice guy," Ling grunted, hauling himself up a particularly steep boulder.<p>

"Yes sire," Lan Fan replied.

The sun had reached a low point, sending beams of red light across the rocks as they climbed. Lan Fan offered a hand down to Ling, and the color glinted off her fingers. "Still," Ling said casually, watching her face. "I'm surprised you promised to go back."

"Are you?" She balanced carefully on a thin outcrop, looking for the next handhold. "We are honor-bound to do so. We did promise to return their map."

She did not blush, and Ling felt his shoulders relax. "So we did!" He grinned, and swung up another level. There he stopped, for just before him a trail stretched out, far and winding. "But first, we must get to Xing, and Mei." Ling looked over his shoulder, just as Lan Fan pulled herself over the ledge. Flexing the fingers of her automail, she came to stand by his side. Ling smiled. "That assassin doesn't stand a chance."

And Lan Fan nodded: "yes my lord."


	8. Night Fifteen

**Author's Note: **Hi guys! Hi! The semester is finally over! Thank you to everyone who reviewed during my ridiculously long break between updates - it kept the story fresh in my mind. So here's an update for you all, in spirit of the holidays. Be warned, the contents of this chapter surprised even me. Ling's character took this in a completely different direction than I intended!

It's good to be writing again! :)

* * *

><p><strong>Night Fifteen<strong>

Contrary to Hamou's prediction of a day-long trek, it took Ling and Lan Fan less than three hours to reach the water pools of Malecktrot. The sun had long since fallen, the mountain grown cold and still in its absence. Still, Ling ran high along the many rugged boulders, Lan Fan hot on his heels. Heeding Talib's warning, the two of them hurried past the first shallow body of water. Ling wondered if many travelers made the mistake of drinking from the toxic pool, before he remembered that this pass, Malecktrot, held some sort of religious sanctity. He doubted many took its path.

Obviously however, some people did – for when he and Lan Fan arrived at the second water source, they found just beyond it a small clearing. It lay in a low ditch, circled by a ledge of boulders. At its center Ling saw a tiny ring of stones: a fire pit, surrounded by bits of debris and pottery.

"It has not been used for some time," Lan Fan spoke, breathing heavily. "Not since Hamou became priest. Talib explained the cultural significance. This place is used to head a pilgrimage – those villagers set on the holy life remain in this spot for days." She paused, and then said dryly, "evidently, the pool is frequented by angels."

Ling turned to her, ready to laugh, but whatever joke he had been about to make died in the back of his throat. Lan Fan was looking down, fingers slowly tracing the palm of her automail hand, where Talib had touched her. Ling's jaw clenched at the softness in her eyes.

"We'll stay here the night," he said loudly, catching her attention.

"But…my Lord," Lan Fan protested. "I had thought that we would journey through the night, to reach Mei Chang before the Shitong takes her into Xing. Are you not concerned for her safety?"

Ling nodded as he moved closer to the camp, inspecting the small fire pit at the center. "Of course I am." He discovered a pile of tinder, just beyond the pit. "But even though Mei's kidnapped, we know that Li won't be harming her. Not so long as he thinks she's discovered the secret to immortality. And we're already far ahead of schedule."

He picked up two logs and shook them, dusting off a fine layer of sand. "And if Hamou's map is correct, then we'll need to wait for Li to cross our paths eventually. So we ought to do so in a place that has water and shelter. Besides," he struck two pieces of flint together, igniting the wood within the pit. He glanced over his shoulder wryly. "When's the last time you slept?"

Lan Fan paused to consider. It had been over two days, it seemed, by her estimation. "I am fine, my Lord." Ling rolled his eyes.

"Yes, yes, of course you are," he sighed. "But you'll be even better after a nap." He hopped back onto the ledge, crouching into a stretch. His muscles tensed, popped, relaxed, and he rocked back comfortably on his heels. Moonlight flashed in the hollow of his throat as he craned back his head, exhaling harshly into the desert air. Each breath puffed out in quickly-passing clouds, and he smiled. "I'll take the first watch."

Lan Fan fidgeted, ready to protest, and Ling looked down at her surreptitiously. One of his eyebrows rose, and the corner of his mouth creased. "Do you think," he said after appraising her for a moment. "That it would be too terribly sacrilegious if we took advantage of that pool of water?"

"Sire?"

Ling smiled fondly. "You're an absolute mess, Lan Fan."

And it was true, she realized. While her companions had been afforded the privileges of rest and washing, she had been out hunting in the desert. Wayward hanks of hair that had escaped from her topknot showed brown instead of black, tangled and painted with dust. A similar film had covered her skin, she saw, and blood from her kills covered the leg exposed by her torn pants.

"It does not bother me, my Lord," she confessed easily, oddly comfortable with the grime. It seemed fitting, that she should be so next to Lord Ling, who sat relatively clean save for a shining bit of sweat at his nape. "But it is probably prudent to wash."

His eyes danced with mirth in the firelight. "Probably," he agreed, not bothering to hide his laughter. "You look worse than that one time we snuck into the market and had to run through the back valley. It took days for Kama to rinse your hair out."

Lan Fan's mouth twisted laconically as she moved behind Ling to kneel at the pool's edge. "You were the one who suggested clay as a disguise, my Lord. And if I recall correctly, your own hair had to be cut, it was so tangled." Sinking her hands into the water, Lan Fan gasped and shivered at the chill. Ling's laughter stopped short, and he cleared his throat.

"Cold?"

"It is not unbearable," she replied. "The pool must be spring-fed." Working meticulously, she sleuthed water over her arms and scrubbed at her face. The sand on her skin darkened before rinsing away, trailing brown rivulets over her fingers.

"Is it okay for your automail to get wet?" Ling asked, voice tight. "It won't rust, or anything?"

"It is resistant to water, I believe," she replied, reaching up to untie and shake out her hair. Clumps of dirt and small rocks tumbled out along with it, falling onto the surface of the water with a hiss. "And I have an oil which I can rub into the metal, later." She knelt low, braced her hands on the shore's ledge, and took a deep breath.

"I could – " she heard Master Ling say haltingly just before she dunked her head. Spring water filled her ears and pricked coolly at her cheeks and, in the privacy of the dark water, Lan Fan grinned widely. Perhaps she did not mind the grime, but she _so_ preferred to be clean. Still beneath the surface, she ran a hand through her hair raggedly. The crust of dirt and sweat dissolved beneath her fingers, and Lan Fan waited until no trace of mud remained before emerging from the water.

Quickly, she twisted her wet hair up and out of the way, securing it with a senbon.

"You know, it'd probably dry faster if you left it down," Ling pointed out. Lan Fan looked at him sharply over her shoulder, and he tilted his head innocently. "What? It would. Oh come on, is it that big a deal?"

"Yes my Lord," she asserted. "You are royalty. I will wear my hair bound in your presence, as is proper." Ling rolled his eyes.

"You'll be cold," was all he said. "And hypothermia isn't all that proper either."

After a long moment, Lan Fan rose from where she knelt by the pool. "Yes," she allowed. "You are correct, my Lord. While you avail yourself of the pool, I will dry my hair by the fire. Please let me know when you are finished, so that I may bind it up again."

Ling stood as well, bouncing on his toes, and shrugged. "Sure thing," he said. "I'll take my time then."

She nodded, feeling ridiculously small as they crossed paths – her dripping wet to the fire, him to the springs. Lord Ling looked down at her with a gentle little smile, and Lan Fan became acutely aware of the cold water still sliding from her hair into her eyes, running across her neck, down her back.

She blinked and hurried back to the small camp. Rustling through her bag, she drew out a clean and unshorn gi and tunic, hastening to put them on while Master Ling's back was turned. Her bindings were filthy as well but – Ling splashed loudly in the water behind her – Lan Fan felt it more wise to keep them on.

Now, as clean as the meager bath had allowed and clothed in her least-dusty tunic and pants, she knelt and shook out her hair by the fire. Working at the tangles, she inwardly despaired at the inappropriateness of the situation. She had no shame in her hair; she accepted it as a natural part of her femininity. But women only wore their hair unbound when they wished to be courted. To do so in front of Master Ling felt...strange.

Propriety bit at her gut; on one hand, she desperately wanted to watch Master Ling, to be sure he did not turn and accidentally catch her with her hair down. On the other, she was deathly embarrassed at the thought of watching him scrub sand from his arms. She settled instead with keeping her gaze forward as she worked, tracking his movements out of the corner of her eye.

True to his word, Master Ling took a very long time in the spring. Her long hair was almost dry by the time he called out: "Okay okay okay. I'm seriously cold. That's enough splashing around for one night. Turning around now!"

Lan Fan looked up in time to see him turn, covering his eyes dramatically. "Oh no! Quick Lan Fan, hide your hair! You might offend me and bring shame and destruction on our entire clan!"

Shaking her head indulgently, she swiftly gathered her long black hair into a loose bun at the base of her neck. "Thank you, my Lord," she tried to hide her amusement. "The crisis has been averted."

"Hey, anytime," Ling laughed, coming to sit at the edge of the ledge, shaking droplets of water from his hands. "What can I say? I'm a day-saver."

"Indeed."

He leaned back and looked at her softly. "All clean now, hm? Feel better?"

"Yes my Lord," Lan Fan replied, ducking her head to hide her happiness. Already, just from her quick bath, she felt more rested than she had in days. The warmth from the fire soaked into her flesh arm and, while not tired, she knelt at peace.

As Master Ling exchanged his over-shirt for a much cleaner tunic, Lan Fan stared into the hand of her automail. It lay open atop her thigh, cold, and she ran her warmer thumb over the metal palm. Just as in Nasesh-Arem, she could not help but feel awe as she traced where Talib had taken her hand. Unable to help herself, she smiled, and Ling made a strange rough sound in the back of his throat.

"Sooo," he drawled suddenly, voice high. "Yeah. It's time to talk about that. I think somebody has a bit of a _crush._"

Lan Fan looked up from her palm. Ling sat casually, forearms draped against drawn-up knees, smiling up at the sky.

"Sire?"

"Oh come on, Lan Fan. It's obvious. You've been mooning over your hand all day." Easy grin still stretched across his face, Ling turned to her, one eye opened. There was a disturbing contrast there, between his laughing face and serious gaze. Lan Fan wanted to squirm, pinned. "You hardly even smile around _me_. But that Talib guy holds your hand once, and suddenly you're all a flutter? Come on," he repeated and laughed. It was odd – Lan Fan had thought she had known all of Master Ling's laughs, yet this one was strange: more mocking than joking, more accusing than teasing. He sounded offended, even betrayed.

Baffled, Lan Fan insisted, "I don't know what you mean, sire," and meant it. A moment later, his words repeated themselves in her mind, and her face flushed with understanding. "Oh!" Could a person die from a sudden rush of blood to the face? "No, sire, I do not – there has been a mistake, I think, my lord. I do not …he, Talib, is admirable yes, but I do not have any -"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Lan Fan," Ling interrupted. He had shifted now, facing her fully, looking down from where he sat perched on the ledge. Both his eyes were open, and he no longer smiled. "When the person you like touches you, or holds your hand, you naturally feel happy. Don't try to deny it. You lit up back when he said goodbye. And you've been touching your hand ever since."

Lan Fan's mouth worked noiselessly. "That isn't…" She couldn't understand her sudden panic – all she knew was that she needed to correct Master Ling's misunderstanding. It didn't make sense, that urgency, but it _had _to be made clear. "Sire, you are mistaken."

Damp in the moonlight, the tendons in his throat showed tense as he swallowed. "You know, it's okay, Lan Fan. You're allowed to get married, have kids, and start a family, some day. You won't always be my bodyguard after all. You'll move on eventually. Maybe…maybe once we fix everything up in Xing, you could go back to Nasesh-Arem. Hamou would probably welcome you there happily enough. And I'm sure Talib would as well. I could even arrange it for you, once I'm Emperor, if you wanted."

"_No!_"

Horror, and the fiercest compellation, moved her from the fire to the foot of the short ledge. Him sitting, her standing, she was at level with his eyes. They widened slightly, though his face remained calm.

"I will _always_ serve you, my lord," she insisted. So close - she could reach out and touch his face, his fingertips, if she dared. She fisted her hands in the fabric of her shirt.

Blushing furiously, Lan Fan forced herself to hold Ling Yao's eyes. They were narrow, serious. She imagined taking the flush in her face, the strength of her beating heart, and filling her words with their heat. She spoke fiercely. "I will _never_ leave your side, Master Ling. Not ever. I have never even considered it a possibility."

Ignoring the churning mortification in her gut – Grandfather would have _flayed_ her for speaking so forwardly to the heir – Lan Fan took a deep breath. Her gaze dropped to Lord Ling's fingers, and she awaited reprobation.

It did not come.

To her surprise, Ling did not condemn her actions. Actually, since he had not said anything at all, she gathered the remaining shreds of her courage and confessed:

"What you have said, however, is true. When Talib took my hand, I realized something which had escaped my attention before." She saw his fingers twitch and dig into his knees. "When Mei Chang repaired my injuries after the sandstorm, she went farther, perhaps, than I suspect was completely necessary. I could tell immediately – the joint connection felt smoother. It was almost as if she had healed the differences between my flesh and the automail, as if I had been born with a mechanical arm naturally. It did not hurt to move it anymore."

"It had been hurting you?" Ling broke his silence, and when Lan Fan glanced up she saw his mouth twist. "You never said it hurt you. What kind of shoddy mechanic did Fu take you to?"

"The mechanic was skilled, my lord. The error lay in my own handling. The nerves slid out of place, slightly, and the muscles tore at the junction, when you – ah – when I caught the homunculus Greed as he fell off the building."

A beat. "I remember," Ling whispered. He brought up one hand to his face, pressed his thumb to his cheek. "You bled." He smiled ruefully. "I could never get Greed to shut up about you, after that. 'The ideal woman,' he always said."

And suddenly, all at once, Lan Fan became very aware of the vast emptiness of the desert. Light, quiet, and cool, the night air around them yawned widely, and Lan Fan felt simultaneously isolated from the world and at its very center. Stilled with chill and silence, the night seemed comprised of only her and Ling.

They had traveled alone before, of course. Her childhood was filled with memories of the two of them, together, as master and servant. Now, with Ling's eyes open and bored into hers, and the crackling of the fire the only sound for miles, Lan Fan realized that she was not just a bodyguard alone with her lord. A breeze flowed over her exposed nape, and she became keenly aware that she was a girl, of sorts, and she was alone with Master Ling. Her eyes burned with the force of her blush.

She swallowed, and continued. "I had thought that Mei Chang's use of the Philosopher's Stone had given me a boon: pain-free automail. That alone would have been wonderful." She raised her mechanical arm, manipulated the fingers and wrists. Ling realized that the joints did not screech or whir as they had done in Amestris. "But when Talib touched my fingers, I realized that Mei Chang had given me more than that." Lan Fan looked down, smiled, and breathed: "I can _feel_, my lord."

Ling did not respond immediately, but when he did, he frowned. "What do you mean? You could not feel before?"

"I could feel pressure, through the nerve ports," Lan Fan explained. "But no more. No pain, no true sensation. When the automail grew cold, or hot, I could feel it in the skin and bone connected to the metal, but not in the arm itself. But now, after Mei Chang's healing, I can feel warmth in my fingers again.

"I had not noticed it before; my priorities were otherwise occupied, and the relative heat and cold of Nasesh-Arem did not seem so different from how the arm had felt before. I had thought it the phantom pains of a missing limb. But when Talib took my hand, I felt warmth, and I realized I had done so before in the village as well."

"And that made you happy."

This time she raised her head as she smiled, eyes sparkling. "Yes."

Heart high in his throat, Ling moved closer, one hand still clenched firmly on his knee. He reached out towards her extended arm. "May I?" he asked. Lan Fan spread her fingers as permission.

To her surprise, instead of the curious tap she had expected, Ling took her hand gently, releasing his knee to bring both hands to cup her own. "So you can feel this," he remarked lightly. Lan Fan nodded. Warmth passed from his palms, curling into her metal fingers.

Ling maintained his soft hold, moving past her wrist, sliding his hand up her forearm. Heat followed, swirling in slow patches of lingering warmth. "And that, you can feel that as well?"

"Yes, my lord," Lan Fan answered, voice hitching when his hand curled around the joint of her elbow. He lingered there a moment, feeling out the catches and dips in the joint. For a brief moment, as he went further up her elbow, she worried that he might cut himself, but his fingers danced easily around the edge of her blade.

"You know, I've always been curious about this arm," Master Ling confided, voice steady and quiet. "It's even more complex than I thought."

Lan Fan stared at a point over his shoulder, forcing herself to remain still and composed. "You could have always asked, my Lord," she said.

Ling laughed - "didn't want to be rude" - as he traced her upper arm. She felt the heat from his hand seep into the grooves which marked where her bicep would lay. "Does that feel strange?" he asked. Around the bolts at her shoulder, the divots and layers of metal plates, he explored. Her breath caught, almost in a gasp, when he reached the junction between flesh and metal. Ling hmm'ed, lowly, in response.

"Well, I think this calls for some investigating, don't you?" Ling suggested with focused nonchalance. "Since it took you days to figure out that you could feel temperatures again, we should," he cleared his throat. "We should figure out your arm more fully. There could be other differences as well. How about here?" His thumb ghosted over the seam separating her arm from her shoulder, and Lan Fan shivered. "What does it feel like?"

She thought her face would overheat. "It feels warm."

"But is it the same," he pressed, "as on the automail? Is there a temperature shift at all?" He made the transition again, moving his hand across the whole of her shoulder, metal to flesh to metal again.

"No," Lan Fan answered. "It is the same. But there is a slight difference. That is, I can tell when you are touching," she _would not_ stutter. "When you are touching my skin, rather than the metal."

"How, if the temperature is the same?"

She shrugged; the motion slid his hand closer to her neck. "The texture is different. On the automail, there is pressure and warmth. On my skin, I can feel more fully."

Ling had moved closer; his breath rustled her long bangs. "Are you sure?' he asked. "So then this," the hand holding hers shifted slightly, "is only a change in movement?"

"Yes."

"And this," Lan Fan froze, for Ling's thumb had dipped along the curve of her neck. "Tell me how this is different."

"I don't – I suppose – it feels like normal contact," her mind felt fogged. She forced herself to remain detached, and clinical, though it became increasingly difficult. "My hand cannot feel the callouses of your fingers, but my – _I_ – can."

"Here?" Ling murmured lowly, the tips of his fingers just barely touching her skin.

She nodded.

Ling hmmm'ed again, hand resting on her shoulder, fingers twining into the bun at her neck. He tilted his head, catching her gaze. She had never seen him look so serious before, or so earnest. Lan Fan felt the heat in her cheeks swirl down to root deep in her belly. Her heart seemed to expand within her chest, pressing against her lungs, and she inhaled sharply.

"That's, ah, probably not," she stammered, eyes wide. "I think I understand it now, my Lord, thank you."

Ling smiled ruefully, his brow knitting. His fingers were still in her hair, and she felt the pressure of his hand on hers, and suddenly she wanted very much to be in Xing, alone, in her and grandfather's house by the hill, far away from Ling, where he couldn't see her blush, or hear her stammer, or catch her looking at him for longer than a servant ought to look at her master. Her skin _itched_.

But she didn't move.

"If you ever asked," he said, almost wistful. "I would. In a second. In a heartbeat. But you never will," his fingers curled further into her bun, loosening several damp strands of hair to fall about his fist. "And I'll never ask, either. It wouldn't be fair to you."

Lan Fan felt the inexplicable urge to cry, though her eyes remained dry and stunned.

"It's like one of those 'unstoppable forces meets an immovable object' things," he laughed humorlessly. "It's impossible, and maddening, and it's just getting ridiculous, don't you think?"

"I..." Lan Fan felt her hands shaking. Her mind reeled - what was the proper way to remove herself from this conversation? She knew how to be alone with a hungry Master Ling, or an angry or tired Master Ling, or even just Master Ling: cheerful companion. But this Ling, who wore a simple brown tunic instead of his Golden Phoenix royal sleeves, who reached out to her with rough and warm hands, was something completely different.

But he wasn't, not really. She did know this Ling: the boy who ran through brambles and mud with her as a child, and who challenged her to ridiculous eating competitions, and always looked back at her with a wide smile. She knew this Ling better than she knew Ling the Emperor, and she knew herself as Lan Fan, trained by Fu of the Yao clan. She was no coward. She was no lady of the court, who could charm with her words yet reveal nothing of herself. She was Lan Fan, and she would be brave, this once.

She grasped his forearm, and looked into his eyes steadily. "I-I will not presume to know of what you are speaking," she said. "And I will not ask for you to explain, because as the heir to Xing it would be beneath you to say such things. But I am a mere servant, and not much is beneath my station, so perhaps I at least can make myself more clear.

"I think of you often, my prince," she said, forcing herself not to look away as Ling's eyes widened. "It is shameful, perhaps, that I do so, but it is the truth. And it is true that I will never ask for anything of you, anything more than a master ought to give his servant, just as you will never ask for more than a servant ought to give her master. It does not pain me. If you will forgive me for burdening you with it, know that you have my...my deepest affections, and it is with them that I serve you."

"Lan Fan - "

She increased her hold on his arm, knees weak with mortification. Determined, she breathed deeply. "I care for you as - I care for you more than I care for anyone else. That is my ultimate truth, and deepest vow. So...so that is that. But I will not ask of anything from you, my Lord, ever. On that, I remain immovable." She let go of his arm, and he lowered both his hands to his sides. They stood in silence for a moment, and Lan Fan could hear her words echoing in the night, impossible to take back now.

"So if you're the immovable object, I guess that makes me the unstoppable force, huh?" Ling asked lightly. To her surprise, Lan Fan saw that a high color had crept around his neck, staining his ears red. He grinned nervously. "Pretty impossible."

Ling sat back on his haunches and regarded her, feeling his heart beat so quickly that his chest felt bruised. "I understand what you're saying, Lan Fan." And he did - in her confession, she had taken the fall for them both. It was both admirable and infuriating, that she should be the one allowed to speak her feelings, while he remained bound by stupid higher expectations. She had been honest, but firm, and had established their boundaries even more firmly than before. "And I should apologize for being so forward with you, as well. Sorry."

Her lips quirked. "You are forgiven, sire."

"Well good. And," here he looked down at the ground, ultimately unable to see her face. "And you should know that I do not consider your feelings a burden."

"Sire..." she warned.

"Nothing inappropriate," Ling clarified. "Just that, as a ruler, I can appreciate honesty and - and honor in my subjects. But a ruler should be honest too, don't you think?" He looked up and saw her half-undone bun, her simple grey tunic and pants, and something twisted in his chest. "It's only impossible so long as we remain how we are, you know. Once I become Emperor, I'll...I'll save our clan, and Mei's too. All of them. And, if you're going to be immovable, maybe you could stay immovable by my side?"

Lan Fan nodded without hesitation. "Always."

Swallowing, Ling shook his head. "No. I mean...that if you are immovable, and I'm unstoppable, and that's what makes this," he gestured at the space between them, "impossible, then I'd be willing to stop. For you." He exhaled roughly. "Okay, this is absolutely ridiculous. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. Lan Fan," he said resolutely. "I'm going to wait for you. That's what I'm saying. And I'd like you to remain by my side, supporting me, until it's not impossible for us anymore. Will you do that?"

For once Lan Fan did not blush, though she did smile slightly. "Always," she said again, and when Ling extended his hand as if to seal the deal, she took it in her own and laughed.

* * *

><p>Still, Lan Fan had insisted on keeping first watch. "For now, I am still your servant, and will behave as such." Ling had whined, but also grinned so widely at her "for now" that he had complied without much a fuss. As he slept on the other side of the camp, Lan Fan curled her knees up to her chest and marveled at how she felt no different than before, as if nothing had been said that either of them had not already known.<p>

And perhaps, she thought, that was true.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay<strong>, so these two totally weren't supposed to have admitted their feelings for each other yet. But every which way I approached it, my understanding of their characters wouldn't allow for anything else. The problem's mostly Ling - he just didn't want to hide his feelings for Lan Fan anymore. Ugh. Hopefully the pacing of the story made the situation believable - not too rushed, is it?

Also, I realized that Ling's whole, "we should figure out your arm more fully" pretty much translates into, "I hafta touch you more – for science!" Hahaha! And poor Lan Fan is just "okay well I totally don't know what to do with my emotions right now." I love these two.


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